Rhapsody in Steel
by Fatality
Summary: Safe in Vienna while the November Uprising rips through Warsaw, Frederic Chopin dreams of the struggle between the rebels of Andantino and the assassins of Staccato, and a love he will remember for a lifetime.
1. Change

Chapter One: Change

"_Do you feel a change coming on?_

_Rolling out of the blue like a storm_

_And it's throwing your dollhouse world in disarray_

_So you can rebuild or conform…"_

He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and in his dream, there was only chaos.

He was standing in the center of a weathered cobblestone lane, still clad in the simple trousers and roomy white undershirt he had fallen asleep in; his feet were bare, and the uneven cobblestones were warm beneath his soles. His own appearance made him wrinkle his nose in distaste: his imagination needed work, if he couldn't at least envision himself a touch more refined in his own dreams. He was just thinking to himself that he needed to find a shop someplace close by, if only to make a few improvements to his wardrobe, when suddenly the world was ablaze.

The flames appeared so quickly and spread so rapidly that he couldn't even pinpoint just where the fire had started; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape with shock and terror, as his mind worked sluggishly to work out a solution as to what to do next. All at once, it seemed, the streets were choked with people rushing away from their burning homes – they jostled him on all sides in their haste to escape the growing blaze, and in his confusion he collapsed to the ground. Dimly he perceived that he was grateful for this, because the cobblestones had soaked up all the warmth of the sun and his skin was suddenly pale and cold –

Something brushed against his outstretched hand, and he turned his head to investigate it; what he saw made his eyes widen with awe. Nestled against his fingertips was an expertly-crafted conductor's baton, its shaft hewn from some exotic wood that he had no name for; it was much longer than the traditional baton, perhaps as long as thirty inches, but he had always been partial to batons with a little more length to them than was natural and did not see this as a shortcoming. Reflexively, it seemed, his fingers sought the finely-chiseled handle and wrapped themselves almost lovingly around it. The handle fit so snugly in his palm that he would have sworn it had been custom made just for him. Certain that this was no ornamental showpiece but a powerful weapon he lifted his head to take stock of his surroundings, to find that the scene had changed yet again.

The modest wooden houses were still ablaze, but most of the structures were little more than charred husks of buildings now; all of the civilians had fled the immediate area and he was alone in the street. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils and unwillingly he inhaled the stuff into his lungs, which resulted in a great coughing fit – for the first time he wondered if he was truly dreaming, because the odor was so real that he was certain he couldn't be imagining it. Through his streaming eyes he squinted through the black veil of smoke that hung over the street, and through the acrid curtain he could just make out the blurry forms of people moving.

He recognized right away that these were not the terrified civilians that had fled for their lives just minutes past; each and every one of them wore suits of armor or mail, a few of them sported bucklers on their arms, and there wasn't an individual among them who wasn't armed for battle. Hazily he perceived that fighting had broken out all up and down the street in one-on-one skirmishes, and the sound of steel clashing against steel resonated in his ears, only slightly muffled by the cloak of smog from the blaze.

There issued a mild explosion from a house only fifty feet away; he threw his arms up over his head to shield his eyes from the sputtering flames and the charred debris, coughing anew, and when he next managed to squint through the fallout it was to find someone was stepping out of the inferno.

He did not recognize the figure standing above him. It was a man, lithely muscled with a shock of tidy black hair and a meticulously-trimmed goatee to match; in his hand he held a thinblade, and when he brandished it before him the flames danced across the engravings of a royal household that the man who had been thrown upon the cobblestones was loathe to name. His face was fierce with triumph at the dark deed that had been committed, and when another figure moved in the smokescreen across from him his amusement turned into blatant, mirthless laughter.

He turned his head to the other side and felt, rather than saw, the figure moving to accost the black-haired man. This would reflect later how curious of a thing this was, for he could see as plainly as daylight that there was someone moving, but he _felt_, in the depths of his heart, the person's presence. Never before had he felt so connected to someone that he didn't know, and more than terrifying him, this thrilled him to the tips of his toes. Here, surely, was the reason he had found himself in this strange place. Here at last was his reason for dreaming at all.

A forlorn breeze kicked up then, just enough to scatter the gloom into harmless wisps of smoke, and the sight of the striking woman standing near him was enough to pierce through his heart like an arrow. She was tall and straight, willowy but not fragile, with eyes the shade of palest emeralds and a just, kind, heart-shaped face. The thing that struck him most, though, was her hair – a fine sheet of shimmering gold, so fine that he was certain that if he could only run his fingers through it, it would feel something akin to the finest thread from the loom. She reached for the weapon sheathed upon her slender hip and brandished a longsword of exquisite import, and perhaps it was his ears playing tricks on him but in that moment he would have sworn that he heard a voice singing joyously from on high.

The black-haired man sized up the green-eyed woman, and the expression shared between them was nothing short of absolute hatred. At last, he condescended to address her. "Have you need of any further display of our supremacy? Look around you! The city you have worked so tirelessly to protect is in shambles. What reason do you have to continue opposing us?"

The golden-haired woman's eyes veritably blazed with emerald fire, and she lifted the longsword into a ready position as though she were prepared to attack at any moment. "Andantino will continue to wave its banner proudly for as long as Forte City insists upon tyrannizing the public."

A harsh, cold laugh was the dark-haired man's only response, and he crooked his finger as if to suggest that she should attack him with all the strength she could muster; she lurched one step forward, preparing to accept the challenge, and then her eyes strayed downward and to the right, to the place where he still lay collapsed upon the sun-baked cobblestones. Her eyes widened a little with surprise, but this made little sense to him – they did not know one another. Why should she be at all shocked to see him there? Then her eyes flitted back to the man whose thinblade she faced, and what little color had risen to her cheeks from being in such close proximity to the flames drained away to find that his eyes had locked with those of the man watching their exchange from the ground.

There was a single frozen moment in which he perceived that he was in very grave danger.

Those black-void eyes narrowed with realization and clarity and he lunged forward, the cruel metallic point of his elegant thinblade leading, and scrambling backward upon the cobblestones he opened his mouth to scream but no sound escaped his lips. With no other option left to him he squeezed his eyes shut tight and braced himself for the inevitable agony.

_Please… let me wake up!_

* * *

><p>It was many long minutes before he realized he was not in pain, as he had expected to be, and even longer before he became dimly aware of the fact that there was no longer warm cobblestone beneath his hands, or the heat of the fire on his face, or the dying sunlight shining on the backs of his eyelids. When he became aware of the fact that the crackle of flames and the soft, ethereal song of the golden-haired woman's longsword no longer filled his ears, Frederic Francois Chopin dared to open his eyes. The sight that awaited him was both comforting and disconcerting – he was sitting bolt-upright in his bed in the dingy, mostly-darkened room he was currently renting. This was comforting because he knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that he was safe from any harm; it was disconcerting because his dream had seemed so very real that he found himself genuinely concerned for the woman with the valiant green eyes, and couldn't help but wonder what had become of her.<p>

It was almost enough for him to wish he hadn't awoken. Almost.

Sitting there, Chopin used every ounce of his focus to memorize each seemingly insignificant detail about the dream, but it was no use. The more he concentrated on all that he had seen, the more each grain of information slipped through his fingers like fine sand, until even the things that had struck him the most were little more than hazy, half-formed images. Frustrated at his inability to remember something that had seemed of vital importance Chopin flung the bed sheets away from his legs and shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the moth-eaten mattress, his bare feet cold upon the bare floorboards underfoot.

Chopin's head fell forward into his hands, and he laced his fingers through his disheveled hair. What was that place? Why was it burning? Who was the man with the black hair, and who was the golden-haired woman? Ignoring the fatigue that lingered still despite the hours of uninterrupted sleep he had found Chopin stood up and crossed the empty room to the single moldy window that faced west; impatiently he shoved the shade aside, an off-white curtain that was actually an extra bed sheet he had hung upon moving in just to gain some meager measure of privacy.

The dreary city of Vienna spread out before him, made all the more gloomy by the light drizzle of rain that now pelted the quaint Austrian city. He could feel a chill emanating from the windowpane and knew that the temperature had dropped yet again; he found himself dreading the next outing away from his cozy, if yet dingy, apartment, and cursed himself when he remembered that he had yet to invest in an umbrella.

Though Vienna was widely regarded as a safe haven for aspiring artists and musicians across the globe and the affectionately-named "poet of the piano" had been welcomed into Austria with open arms and joyous hearts, Chopin was far from happy. He had arrived safely in Vienna on the twenty-third of November and settled into the fabled city with excitement, for surely here his muse would visit him and he would grace the world with a long line of masterpieces for the piano. Unfortunately disaster had struck his beloved home of Poland just six days later when Warsaw, capitol city and crown jewel of Poland, declared insurrection against its usurpers – the Imperial Russian Army.

Tensions had been high in Warsaw for months preceding the insurrection, so much so that many of Chopin's closest relations had urged the young composer and pianist to leave the country before that tension could escalate to all-out war. Chopin rested his forehead against the window, feeling suddenly feverish and grateful for the cool panes, remembering well the day he had decided to leave his homeland and further realize his talents playing the piano – it had been the second of November, and riots were breaking out in Warsaw every other day.

Granted – he was safe where he now lived, in the boundaries of a friendly country where his work was well known and his mild demeanor was well loved. It was true that he could probably live out the rest of his days right here in this dreary little apartment, weaving intricate melodies that spoke of his loneliness and the despair of a man who was cut off from the land that he loved. But all Chopin really wanted was to return to Warsaw, to use his skills at the piano in the war against the Imperial Russian Army and help Poland win its independence once and for all.

Perhaps his unease was the reason he had been having so many strange dreams lately.

Chopin turned away from the window and set his eyes upon the elegant grand piano that sat in a place of honor in the center of his apartment, feeling slightly calmer as his eyes caressed the ivory keys and pieced together a basic melody in his mind. As if drawn by some stronger force Chopin crossed the room and took his seat upon the well-worm bench, setting his fingertips to the appropriate keys and feeling a familiar sense of peace as he prepared to make music. Just as he was about to strike the first chord of a tune that was as-yet unfamiliar to him, he was blindsided by the sudden recollection of the woman with the golden hair, and he hesitated.

Strangely enough, in that moment, Chopin recalled a few choice words of wisdom that his dear friend, Franz Liszt, had said to him not so long ago: "It doesn't matter what great tragedy befalls you in your lifetime, or what supreme victories you may celebrate. Regardless of where you go or what you do, when you return to the piano… you will be home."

With these words in mind Chopin re-focused on the great instrument at his fingertips and began to play, leaving all thought of that unsettling dream behind.

* * *

><p>Vivace, second-in-command to Andantino's elite third unit, knew their regiment was outmatched long before they set foot on the cobblestones of the main street of A Cappella City. It was far too quiet in the tiny island town; the birds didn't sing, the late afternoon crowds were nowhere to be found, and even the tide seemed to lap at the shore in a more subdued manner than usual. None of it bode well for Vivace, who had been against this operation from the very start.<p>

She turned her pale green eyes upon Timpani, who was crouched in the shadows of the A Cappella bakery just behind her. "Something is wrong."

"Of course something is wrong," Timpani whispered back, running a hand through his bouncy brown curls and heaving a quiet sigh. "It never ends well when we express our displeasure with Sostenuto's choices. We're always right about these things, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Vivace's eyes darted all about; she watched protectively as, across the way, twin magic users Bolero and Gigue moved into position and prepared their opening spells. "We shouldn't be here."

The moment the words had left her lips Vivace sniffed at the air confusedly, wondering why the smell of smoke was suddenly permeating her nostrils.

That was when all hell broke loose.

The straw roofs of all the houses lining the main street were aflame; all around them windows were exploding under the heat of the flames, pouring forth great gouts of smoke that blotted out the late-afternoon sunlight. Vivace's lungs burned in protest and she coughed once before she could manage to batter the reflex into submissive, but by then it was too late – even the most insignificant sound was more than their enemies needed to pinpoint their positions. Timpani's hand darted out, striking Vivace hard enough in the shoulder to throw her off balance and send her swooning for the ground. This effectively saved her life; a single shadowy figure descended from the roof of the bakery and stabbed a broadsword into the cobblestones upon which Vivace had been standing barely a second before.

Timpani jerked his katana from its well-oiled sheath and took up a defensive stance over Vivace as she scrambled back to her feet; with an unattractive sneer, the assassin Bellicoso straightened and tugged his broadsword free of the crack he had made in the cobblestones.

"You lot have grown careless," observed Bellicoso with a snicker, swinging the broadsword up to balance upon his left shoulder. "If this keeps up, Staccato will have little trouble dispatching Andantino!"

With a growl Timpani leapt forward to engage Bellicoso in one-on-one combat, but before their battle was joined he managed to growl at Vivace, "Go and warn Sostenuto! Staccato is here, and they were waiting for us!"

Vivace turned and dashed away, weaving in between the terrified droves of townsfolk now flooding the streets in a frantic attempt to escape the growing blaze, and as she ran Vivace assessed the damage to the city. It looked bad at first glance – nearly every building on the central highroad was now licked with flames, many of them personal abodes – but the majority of the damage seemed to be contained to that area so the number of casualties would not be high, if any at all. Unfortunately, Vivace had no time to feel any sense of relief at this knowledge – rounding a corner heading east she came face-to-face with two more of the assassins of Staccato, Antiphon and Feroce.

Fortunately, the loyal members of Andantino's third unit were always ready to offer her their aid – which Gigue was only too happy to deliver in the form of a bolt of freezing lightning. As Feroce and Antiphon recovered from a momentary blindness and struggled to free their feet from the layer of ice that kept them rooted to the spot, Bolero and Gigue ran up to flank Vivace on either side.

"Leave these two to us!" Bolero bade her, a miniscule bead of crimson flame dancing upon the tip of his index finger as he prepared to unleash his first spell. "Sostenuto battles Gavotte just down the street. You must go to him!"

Vivace knew better than to question the magic-wielding twins; the youngest members of Andantino they may be, but inexperienced they were not. She turned her back on them and fled, as all around her the city of A Cappella burned and the sounds of fighting broke out in half a dozen locations.

She found Sostenuto, the leader of the third unit of Andantino, locked in a heated battle with Gavotte, one of the only female members of assassin organization Staccato and easily one of the most ruthless. Her twin kukris slashed through the air as she pressed Sostenuto's defenses for even the smallest opening, and the large, out-of-shape Andantino lieutenant already appeared to be winded from the exertions. It weighed heavily upon Vivace's conscience to know that, not only was she duty bound to serve Sostenuto, but she had no power to change his ill-informed decisions or his self-centered attitude. She cast her practiced eye up and down the main street, trying to keep a level head as she assessed the situation; Andantino appeared to be holding their own against Staccato, but even as she looked on more and more of Forte City's assassins appeared from the curtains of smoke that now lay thickly upon the city of A Cappella. There really was no other choice.

Though it pained her to do so, Vivace raised her usually soft-spoken voice in a compelling order: "Retreat! Fall back to the boats!"

Sostenuto broke away from Gavotte just long enough to cast a venomous glare in Vivace's direction, followed by the bellowed words "No! Belay that! Stand and fight! We may yet make this day ours!"

Vivace could only gape at her lieutenant in dismay, certain that his order would be the death of them all. Just as she was assessing where best she might fit into the battle the building on her immediate right exploded, showering her with bits of flaming debris and stinging her eyes with yet another gout of smoke, and feeling compelled to investigate she waded through the ruins of the home that had just gone up in flames and emerged on the other side.

To find that Toccata was already waiting for her.

At the sight of Vivace stepping out of the veil of thickening smoke, her golden hair whipping about her fair face like a shower of molten gold, Toccata threw his head back and laughed at the sky. His master had promised him sport in reward for his acceptance of this mission, and his patience had been rewarded – now, at last, he would have the opportunity to end Vivace's life, and strike a blow to Andantino that the cursed rebel organization wouldn't soon recover from! They faced one another from opposite sides of the cobblestoned lane, drawing weapons in the same instant that their eyes met.

"Have you need of any further display of our supremacy? Look around you!" Toccata gestured wildly with his finely-crafted thinblade, indicating the burning wreckage up and down the avenue. "The city you have worked so tirelessly to protect is in shambles. What reason do you have to continue opposing us?"

Vivace squared her shoulders and her jaw, feeling no fear. An unfamiliar sense of pride surged deep within her, prompting her to lift her longsword into a ready position and say, "Andantino will continue to wave its banner proudly for as long as Forte City insists upon tyrannizing the public."

The sound of Toccata's answering laugh was enough to spark rage within mild-mannered Vivace's heart, and when he mockingly gestured for her to take the opening strike she tightened her grip around the hilt of the Crystal Echoblade and stalked one step toward her adversary –

For no reason that she could comprehend, Vivace felt her focus fracture in the instant before she engaged Toccata in battle; her keen eyes flitted to one side and landed upon the frightened eyes of a man she did not recognize. Though her attentions were elsewhere, Vivace was certain that the man she now looked upon would prove to be someone of great importance in the days to come; that impulsive sense of kinship frightened Vivace, for she had never been one to invest her trust in someone blindly and scarcely trusted those that had been around her for many of the longest, most difficult years of her life. He stared, terrified, back into her eyes, his mouth partially agape as though he wanted desperately to say something but couldn't make his lips form the words.

In that instant the truth struck Vivace as surely as if Toccata's sword had punctured her skin – this man was not from A Cappella, wasn't from their world at all. He was surely one of the drifters, one of the "gateways to the other world" that the tyrannical Count Waltz sought to expand his diabolical empire… and Vivace's knowing gaze had surely just ended the young man's life.

She snapped her eyes back upon Toccata's piercing black pupils, but it was far too late – Toccata was now also gazing at the handsome man with the dark cobalt locks and the eyes the color of molten chocolate as though he was the key to the promised land.

The moment that Toccata lunged forward, the tip of his blade leading, Vivace dashed in between the assassin's weapon and the man with the terrified eyes. She glanced back, hoping to look into those lovely eyes one last time before the sword found its mark and stole her life from her –

To find that the man had vanished. Had he ever really been there at all…?

Behind her, Toccata howled in rage and agony; the cry prompted Vivace to turn back, and what she saw nearly stole the breath from her lungs. Little Duolo, the navigator for the Andantino-owned vessel _Rubato_, had intercepted Toccata at the last moment and struck at the assassin in order to keep him from skewering Vivace's on the end of his blade. A single stroke from Duolo's precious warhammer had clearly wounded Toccata – he now clearly favored one knee over the other and seemed to be having difficulty keeping himself upright – but in the next instant he made Duolo pay the ultimate price for crossing him. Toccata swung the thinblade, striking the fingers Duolo used to cling to his warhammer and sending the weapon spinning from the young renegade's hand, and the moment poor Duolo was unarmed Toccata impaled him with a single brutal thrust.

Vivace could only watch, helpless, as the light left Duolo's eyes.

A single muscular arm wound itself around her slender waist, dragging her backward, even as she glared at Toccata with unmistakable hatred and raised her longsword as though to strike him, but Timpani was not daunted by her struggles and succeeded in hauling her away from the gleeful assassin. Through tear-filled eyes, Vivace could just dimly perceive yet another building crumbling down to its very foundation as the flames consumed everything until there was nothing left to burn.

"Retreat!" came Sostenuto's voice from somewhere very far away, but Vivace was hardly listening at that point.

On the other end of the city, A Cappella's emergency sirens at last began to peal.


	2. Psychosis

Chapter Two: Psychosis

"_I think I'm gonna start my own religion_

_Seems to be the recipe for a new sensation_

_Think it's gonna make a trendy revolution_

_Quite the contribution to the unnatural selection…"_

"My Lord?"

Count Waltz stirred from his musings to find that Legato hadn't taken the hint and made himself scarce; instead, his personal emissary and subordinate was still standing there patiently in the center of the audience hall, apparently awaiting an answer to some crisis that simply couldn't be ignored. Waltz rolled his eyes and sighed tragically – didn't these simple-minded fools have anything better to do than bother him with their petty, meaningless pursuits?

"What is it, Legato? Can you not see that I am preoccupied?"

Legato cleared his throat and did his best to regard the Count of Forte Castle with a mild, even expression – though inside he was more than a little frustrated with the monarch's negligence. He was careful to bow his head in obeisance before he voiced his inquiry for the third time since he had admitted himself. "My Lord, I merely sought your counsel in order to pen your response to Prince Crescendo's peace offering. After all, it would be most beneficial to both of our great nations if they were to unite under one rule."

"I don't need you to tell me what would be best for my kingdom, Legato," snapped Waltz, coming forward in his throne and scowling like a small child preparing to throw a tantrum. "I am quite capable of figuring that out for myself."

The count's emissary bowed his head, readjusting his spindly spectacles, and said nothing.

Count Waltz rose from his throne and strolled to the window, glancing out into the parlor where his next audience awaited him, and a wicked smile curled up his lips. Several of the assassins of Staccato were grouped in the parlor, and the meeting with them would surely prove to be much more amusing than this drab conversation with his always-stuffy councilor. Nevertheless, the proposition set forth by the high-and-mighty Prince Crescendo of Baroque was an intriguing one, and Waltz thought it best to heed Legato's wisdom and consider the matter carefully, just this once.

Prince Crescendo was the successor to the throne of Baroque Castle, as he was the only heir the previous monarch, King Maestoso, had left behind before passing away prematurely just one year ago. Of course, Count Waltz knew better than to simply state that King Maestoso had just "passed away", for that was not the case – it was much more accurate to say that he had been murdered, though the young Prince Crescendo had done a truly marvelous job of keeping that messy little detail from reaching public knowledge. No, Maestoso's death had not been the quiet and painless affair that Crescendo had made it out to be – in reality, Maestoso had suffered a great deal at the hands of Waltz's most loyal and ruthless assassin, a man by the name of Fugue. It was the last order that Waltz's dear uncle, King Affrettando, had issued before his own death just two days later.

And to think, Waltz had yet to uncover the identity of his uncle's killer!

At any rate, Prince Crescendo had proven to be both a noble and worthy adversary considering his tender age of twenty nine. In response to King Affrettando's senseless act of brutality, Crescendo had thrown all of his support behind the ever-frustrating rebellion called Andantino, and Waltz assumed that one of those vermin was responsible for murdering his beloved uncle. Upon taking up his uncle's mantle, Waltz had made only one goal known to all of his subjects – to ensure that Forte City reigned supreme over all nations, Baroque City included. Though a formal declaration of war between the two great nations had never been instated, Crescendo and Waltz had been opposing one another at every turn ever since being appointed to their respective positions of power.

And now, Crescendo had thrown yet another wrench into Waltz's plans.

Waltz extracted the official-looking roll of parchment from his back pocket and perused it once again, frowning at the words contained therein. In a surprise move that even Waltz couldn't have foreseen, Crescendo had written a letter of intent to marry Serenade, the First Princess of Forte Castle, King Affrettando's eldest daughter, and Waltz's cousin. The letter went on to lament the aggressive relationship between the two nations, and ended with Crescendo's promise that, in the event Waltz agreed to the union, he, Crescendo, would work ceaselessly in order to attain a true and everlasting peace between Forte and Baroque.

Count Waltz wanted nothing more than to laugh at Crescendo's ridiculous proposal – yet he had to admit, the alliance would come with undeniable benefits. For one thing, his cousin Serenade was young and undeniably beautiful; she would have little difficulty ensnaring Crescendo with her obvious charms. But more importantly, Serenade's loyalty lay unwaveringly with her home country – even if she were to relocate to Baroque Castle and rise to the position of Queen, she would always be a Princess of Forte. She would remain loyal to her people no matter the cost.

Even if that cost was losing the trust and respect of every citizen in Baroque in order to keep the Count of Forte Castle well informed. On the other hand… if Serenade were ever to become too enamored with her overly sophisticated, all-too-handsome husband…

Waltz shook his head in an effort to cleanse the poisonous thought from his mind, then turned back to face Legato. His servant appeared not to have moved a single muscle in all the time Waltz had been brooding; pleased by Legato's dedication Count Waltz delivered Crescendo's decree into his servant's hands, and seeing that Waltz was about to voice his reply, Legato hastened to locate a quill.

"Here, now, is my word – the only word I will condescend to give to this so-called Prince," sneered Count Waltz, and he threw himself dramatically back down upon his throne. "Tell him that I will speak with my dearest cousin on this great matter, and while I agree with his efforts to deliver peace back into our countries I will not sacrifice my cousin's honor, or her unhappiness. The choice rests with Serenade, and with her alone. If she desires to pledge her heart to Baroque's monarch, then it will be so."

Seeing that there would be no other response forthcoming Legato penned Count Waltz's decree in his own flowing manuscript, and when the deed was done he retreated to the open window where Waltz's letter bird waited to bear the message on its way. He fastened the small slip of rolled parchment to the bird's leg with a length of twine, and then released the bird into the morning sky; they watched it soar away into the east until it was lost in the rising sun, and then Legato turned back to face his monarch. Count Waltz waved his hand lazily in dismissal, and Legato exited without another word.

"Enter," called Waltz, balancing his chin on his hand and tilting his head to one side as though bored, and the double doors to the Count's audience hall swung open to admit the assassins of Staccato.

The assassins of Staccato had been appointed by the late King Affrettando as a means of accomplishing the tasks that the King would do well not to be seen participating in himself. These duties included personally dispatching enemies of Forte Castle Court or, in the event that their targets were far too valuable to be killed on sight, interrogating the enemies of Forte City for any important information they were believed to be possessing. More than one member of the secret assassin's organization was a highly skilled interrogator; some were diplomats, others were spies, but they were all the most ruthless and talented killers in all the world. Count Waltz's right hand man, an assassin by the name of Fugue, led the entourage into the audience hall; he was slim and straight with lithely muscled arms, a cruel smile and a mop of silvery hair that made him easily distinguishable in a crowd. Next to him was Count Waltz's left hand, the lady Rondo; the greatest weapon at her disposal was inarguably her phenomenal beauty, which was often whispered about in Forte Castle Court. She appeared to be quite soft and dainty, but those who judged her simply based on her appearance found out quickly that this was a grave mistake. She was rarely seen wearing anything but her custom made black glass armor, framed by a shimmery sheet of mauve locks and sultry amethyst eyes. Following closely beside her was the famed torturer Ostinato, one of the youngest and newest members of the organization and only tolerated because of her obvious skills; Ostinato was constantly whining and complaining, a trait that her fellow assassins were less than fond of. Nevertheless Waltz condescended to keep the petite girl with the fiery red hair in his employment – after all, she had successfully managed to torture a great deal of pertinent information out of many of Waltz's adversaries, and his father had always expressed upon him the advantages of staying well informed.

After Ostinato came Antiphon, Bellicoso, Feroce, and Gavotte, all grouped tightly together and bickering quietly amongst themselves. This struck Waltz as quite odd, for generally the members of Staccato put little stock in arguing and functioned together as flawlessly as a well oiled machine; Gavotte's unusual orange eyes were flashing malevolently and as Waltz watched she jabbed a finger in Feroce's face accusingly; Feroce, a seedy-looking character whose scraggly brown hair was always tied untidily back with a leather strap, scowled at her and snapped something rude in reply. Bellicoso, easily the largest among the group, snickered and thumped one meaty fist against his barrel chest; Antiphon, the quietest member of the assassin's organization, peered out from beneath her curtain of pale blonde hair and said nothing.

Waltz was about to order them to stop their petty arguments at once when Toccata strode into the audience hall at the back of the group, dragging the lifeless body of one of the members of Andantino in his wake. The Count's eyes lit up with malicious pleasure; Toccata swung his arm carelessly, heaving the body around by a handful of bloodstained hair, and deposited the little one's lifeless corpse at Count Waltz's feet. All the while, his face remained absolutely compassionless.

Fugue bent at the waist and spread his arms out wide, offering a bow of utmost obeisance to the monarch of Forte Castle. "Count Waltz… we have completed the errand you charged us with, and we are here now to report and to receive your next orders."

Count Waltz sat up straight in his throne and motioned for all of them to take seats; they did so at once, though Gavotte and Feroce continued to glare threateningly at one another. He could see that there would be little peace until the conflict was resolved, so heaving a heavy, tragic sigh Waltz snapped, "What seems to be the problem?"

Gavotte whipped her curtain of dark hair over her shoulder haughtily and crossed her arms, thrusting her nose in the air in a most superior fashion. "Count Waltz, with all due respect, I do not think that now is the time for us to cross blades with Andantino. The risk to our organization, and to the people of Forte City, is simply too great at this time."

"I disagree," snarled Feroce, his blue-gray eyes glinting like cold iron. "Just look at what we are capable of!" He nudged the motionless body of Andantino's Duolo none-too-gently with the toe of one of his leather boots. "The losses Andantino has incurred on our account are staggering. Now is the perfect time to strike. If we can simply eliminate Jazz – "

"What do you know about Jazz?" laughed Gavotte cruelly, her face twisted into a kind of unattractive hilarity.

"Enough!" bellowed Waltz, his eyes flashing violet flames, and his two subordinates instantly fell silent. "Gavotte, Feroce, Antiphon, Bellicoso, Ostinato… you may all remove yourselves from my sight. Fugue, Rondo, Toccata… you have my permission to stay."

Gavotte shot Waltz a sour look but otherwise did not protest; Bellicoso looked prepared to argue, but Feroce wisely slapped him on the back of the head and jerked his head toward the double doors. The five assassins trouped silently out of the Count's audience hall, shooting one another malicious glances with every step; the moment the doors had swung shut behind them, Waltz cast one black-velvet-gloved hand over his eyes and moaned. "Honestly… they bicker like small children. It is fortunate that I have you three, is it not?"

"Clearly if eliminating Jazz was as simple as they make it sound, we would have done it long ago," Rondo pointed out in her soft, seductive voice. "And Andantino would not be such a meddlesome bunch."

"Well spoken," Fugue congratulated her. "Though, if I may say so, it is only a matter of time."

"Indeed," agreed Waltz, and he settled back against the plush backing of the throne. "So – let us talk. Let me first congratulate you on what appears to have been a successful mission – I daresay that Andantino was surprised to see you?"

"Quite," answered Fugue. "It was clear that they were simply visiting A Cappella in order to investigate the rumors of dream drifters in the city… they were completely unprepared for our assault – " He paused to snicker softly down at Duolo's broken body, " – As you can see for yourself."

"And was it you, Fugue, who took this child's life from him? Whatever was his name again?" Waltz smirked most unpleasantly before finishing, "Vermin all start to look alike after awhile, wouldn't you agree?"

Fugue's lips twitched into a kind of half smile, and he cast a sidelong glance at Toccata, who had been quiet all the while. "While I would like to take credit for this victory, Count, I cannot – it was Toccata who slew the boy, while doing battle with Vivace."

Toccata at last jerked his head up; it appeared Fugue had interrupted him from some deep internal musings. "I cannot in good conscience call it a battle; Vivace and I never crossed blades. By the time Duolo had fallen to my blade, Andantino's third regiment was already in full retreat."

"And did you pursue them to the docks?" It was safe to assume that Andantino had made the journey to A Cappella by boat, for it was an island quite far out to sea and was otherwise not accessible.

"As far as we could, Count," Toccata replied monotonously. "The members of the third unit of Andantino are few, and require only one boat in which to travel; it is far faster than ours, unfortunately, and so we had no choice but to let them escape for the time being."

"It was then that this discussion of mounting a full-frontal assault on Andantino came to a head," Rondo confessed, "despite our best efforts to keep the rabble to a dull roar."

Count Waltz again extracted the sheaf of parchment from a back pocket of his fine breeches, unrolling it with exaggerated care and perusing its contents with more than a little interest; seeing this, Fugue glanced sidelong at Rondo, who offered the most minute shake of her head in response to his unspoken question. Toccata merely watched Waltz indifferently, knowing well the Count's love for dramatics and trusting that the young monarch would offer some enlightenment into his strange behavior in due course.

He was correct, as usual. "An interesting development has arisen – I have made correspondence with Crescendo this day."

"The Prince of Baroque?" Fugue barked, taken aback, and Waltz rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"Yes, the Prince of Baroque, you fool – who else would I be speaking of, do you suppose?" Fugue settled down into his chair, looking sheepish; when he was certain that Fugue would not be offering up any more foolish interruptions, Count Waltz turned his eyes back upon Crescendo's letter. "He has penned an offer of peace between Forte and Baroque, stating that the hostilities between our two great nations should be ceased at once in the interest of all the people… As his insurance, he requests the hand of Princess Serenade." His violet eyes refocused on the three of them over the top of the parchment, looking skeptical. "In short, he wishes to wed my eldest cousin."

Rondo, who had long been one of Serenade's closest confidantes as well as one of the princess's strongest supporters, objected immediately. "Princess Serenade, a lapdog for the pompous pretender to Baroque's throne? Surely you are not considering this, Count Waltz?"

Waltz's expression turned sour. "On the contrary, I am."

There was a stunned silence in the Count's audience hall, but it did not last very long before Waltz's three primary advisors reacted uproariously; Rondo's was the first voice to make itself heard. "Count Waltz, I beseech you! Do not give Princess Serenade away to that fool Crescendo! He will corrupt her, he will turn her interests against Forte… This can only end in disaster!"

It was Fugue who answered on Waltz's behalf, in a biting tone that made the Count proud. "You do not truly think that Princess Serenade is as weak-willed and impressionable as all that, do you? Do not forget – she is, first and foremost, a Princess of Forte. I believe I can see the Count's logic behind this decision."

"Nothing has been decided yet," Count Waltz corrected, and he tossed the Prince's letter carelessly away from him; Toccata caught the parchment deftly in one hand and straightened it, considering every word Crescendo had penned very carefully as Waltz continued to address them. "In my reply I made it clear to Crescendo that this decision ultimately rests with Princess Serenade; if she wishes to bind herself to him, then of course I will make it so. However, do not ever make the mistake of thinking that she would cast Forte off as negligible simply on account of a marriage vow – her loyalty lay irrevocably with her father, King Affrettando, when he was alive, and it will not likely be swayed."

"Then you will… put Crescendo's proposition to Princess Serenade?" asked Fugue haltingly, looking moderately uncomfortable.

"Yes, I plan to, and that is all I care to discuss on this matter," Waltz told them warningly, and Toccata wisely stepped in to change the subject.

"I think, Count Waltz, that it would be to our benefit to at least discuss our next move against the rebels of Andantino," Toccata suggested. "Of course, I am not saying that we should plan such an aggressive act as the one the rest of Staccato suggests – but it would be unwise to continue about in this vein without appeasing them. We would do well, I think, to use their enthusiasm to our advantage."

Count Waltz leaned comfortably back in his throne again, tapping his chin with one black velvet index finger. "What do you suggest, Toccata?"

Toccata modestly spread his hands. "I would never presume to interfere with matters of state, Your Eminence."

But Waltz wouldn't let him evade. "Your opinion, Toccata."

Toccata considered the matter carefully before he spoke; after all, Count Waltz rarely asked anyone for advice, and more often than not outright rejected the counsel of those he did. After careful deliberation, Toccata cleared his throat. "It might be prudent of us to take a more aggressive approach against Andantino. As you know, most of the younger members of Staccato only considered offering their services for one reason – to fight the rogues. As far as I am concerned, our private war against Crescendo and Baroque is still in play until such time as Princess Serenade accepts his offer of marriage – if she accepts it at all, that is – so should we not use this time to our advantage? We have taken the life of one member of Andantino this day." He paused to smile malevolently down at Duolo's body once more, and Fugue snickered remorselessly. "Let us press our advantage. Let us claim as many more lives as we are able." As he finished he glanced around to see how his words had been received; Rondo was nodding along, her face lit up with a very rare smile, and Fugue even bent into a little bow for his trouble.

Count Waltz was looking both devious and victorious, and answered in a voice that was filled with malicious pleasure. "I think that, given the current circumstances, it would be to our advantage to do just as you suggest, Toccata. The reply I sent to Crescendo was, in a word, amiable – he will not expect an open display of aggression from us at this point. I still believe that Crescendo is in direct correspondence with Jazz – " Waltz's three advisors hissed at the mention of the leader of Andantino, and Waltz smirked to himself. " – And I also believe that he will share every word of my reply with his favored liaison. Jazz will be off his guard, as will the rest of that rabble. As much as it pains me to admit it, I find myself in agreement with that barbarian Bellicoso – the time for action is right now."

Rondo chose that moment to speak. "According to the informant that we recently planted in Andantino, the third regiment is moving out again soon - on Jazz's own orders, no less."

"And where are they bound?"

"Agogo Forest, Count Waltz. They have been curious about the little creatures ever since they learned of your interest in them. I am certain they will be on their way as soon as they are able."

Waltz clapped his hands together once jubilantly, though the sound was muffled by the supple material of his gloves. "Excellent… Here is what I wish for you to do. Assemble Staccato and give them all the information they will need regarding the agogos of the forest; one of them might prove useful, and succeed in capturing one of the creatures for further experimentation. Further cultivating the mineral powder for extended use and stronger results is very high on my list of priorities, as you well know – he who helps realize this dream will be well rewarded. In the meantime, make it plain that this mission will set our forces against Andantino, and that I will personally recognize anyone who dispatches one of the rebels."

The Count of Forte Castle rose from his throne and beckoned for his advisors to do the same; Fugue, Rondo, and Toccata all abandoned their seats and bowed low, murmuring various words of obeisance and their promises that his will would be done. Waltz dismissed them all without another word, then retrieved Prince Crescendo's letter from the ground and retreated to his desk, perusing the parchment's contents with obvious distaste.

At his desk he took up a lit candle and set fire to one edge of the heavy sheaf; the light from the fire danced in his violet eyes, and he smiled to himself. "Ah, Crescendo… I fear that by the time you realize that you have been deceived, it will be far too late!"


	3. Locking Up the Sun

Chapter Three: Locking Up the Sun

"_Is there a hero somewhere, someone who appears and saves the day?_

_Someone who holds out a hand and turns back time?_

_Is there a hero somewhere, someone who will never walk away?_

_Who doesn't turn a blind eye to a crime…?"_

"Jazz? Are you even listening to me?"

Looking back on it, Jazz was prepared to admit – with a certain degree of guilt, of course – that he hadn't really been listening at all, but there was no reason in the world he would ever tell Falsetto that, of course. He was consumed by his own thoughts and worries, standing at the window looking out upon the growing underground hideout that all those who resided within fondly referred to as Andante, the secret city founded by the rebels who called themselves Andantino; the streets were oddly devoid of foot traffic which, considering it was midday, was very strange. Normally the members of Andantino were a very social community; since they shared the same morals and interests, they conversed often and got on with each other very well.

Something was wrong. Jazz's intuition was never wrong – he could tell, without listening to Falsetto's testimony, that the mission in A Cappella had gone ill at some turn. He sighed, bowing his head and shaking the finely-kempt black ponytail away from the back of his neck.

"Of course I'm listening, Falsetto. Please continue."

Falsetto had to grind her teeth together to keep from losing her temper with her technical superior; being the first lieutenant to the primary operating unit of Andantino, she was second only to Jazz himself in all matters. Behind his back she ran a hand through her moonlight-silver pixie cut, her keen green eyes reflecting her frustration. "I've had a letter from one of the members of Sostenuto's unit. Staccato was awaiting them in A Cappella."

Jazz's golden eyes reflected the monumental amount of pain and loss he felt before he quickly squeezed them closed; to keep himself composed, he clenched his hands into fists. "Were there casualties?"

"Yes." Falsetto bowed her head, suddenly distraught. "They lost Duolo."

The news knifed through Jazz's heart, and swooning forward he braced his hands against the windowsill to keep from collapsing under the weight of his turmoil. Duolo, a runaway from the not-so-distant metropolis of Ritardando, had been a sweet, kind boy, easily excitable and very passionate about Andantino's cause. He had been one of the youngest members ever to be accepted into active duty in the rebellion – he had been only fourteen. Seeing Jazz's distress Falsetto staggered forward a single step, one hand outstretched to comfort him, but thought better of it at the last moment and drew back away from him.

"How could they…" Jazz's voice carried a very rare note of helplessness, and he paused to swallow hard before continuing. "How could Staccato have possibly known we were moving in on the area? I was certain to keep the information very private. I shared the matter with barely anyone… Only you and I were aware of it, as well as Sostenuto and his two lieutenants."

Falsetto nodded grimly. "Exactly."

"What are you suggesting?" Jazz snapped, a steely note to his tone now.

"The same thing that second-in-command Vivace insinuated in her letter. That someone among us has been passing information along to our enemies."

Jazz finally turned back to face Falsetto, his face ancient in its sadness despite the fact that he was only twenty seven years of age. "Someone in Andantino, a traitor? An informant for Waltz?"

"We can't deny that it is a distinct possibility," Falsetto admitted sourly, and Jazz held up a hand to indicate that she should be silent; his first lieutenant closed her mouth without another word.

In truth, Jazz was a very astute man – the possibility that someone in Andantino was really in league with Count Waltz and the cursed assassins of Staccato had not escaped his notice, and he had even considered in recent days just who the most likely candidates were. No, what bothered him most was the prospect that his rebel group, all individuals that he dearly loved and whom he sincerely believed were devoted to him, could be dispatched in the blink of an eye if these hideous rumors proved true. Each and every one of them was a man or woman of virtue and integrity, who had pledged to oppose the crooked Count of Forte Castle at every available opportunity… They were all men and women whom Jazz had hand-picked for this duty himself.

And to think… one of his own was responsible for the death of innocent little Duolo. One of his own would not hesitate to end more lives… was perhaps plotting his next move already.

Jazz glanced back up to find that Falsetto was regarding him concernedly, and he moved the conversation ahead in an attempt to calm her. "What is their current location?"

"When Vivace wrote the letter, the third unit was about an hour away from making port in Baroque," Falsetto informed him. "If my estimates are correct, they should be arriving in the city tonight. Should I arrange for you to meet with Sostenuto, so that the two of you can discuss what happened in A Cappella?"

"No," said Jazz, and the word even surprised him for a moment; he hastened to correct himself. "I mean… Summon his first lieutenant to me when she has made herself more comfortable from the road. What did you say her name was?"

"Vivace."

"Yes… Vivace." Jazz turned back to look out the window, scanning the eclectic houses up and down the avenue, trying to remember which one was Duolo's and how he would break the news to the boy's grief-stricken parents. The thought of what he had to do made his stomach turn. "She has made more of an effort to keep us informed of the third unit's movements and progress; I think it would be in our best interest to speak with her on this matter. Her superior has been much less helpful, wouldn't you agree?"

Falsetto nodded once sagely to indicate that she agreed. Jazz clasped his hands behind his back again.

"Very well. Now, if you'll excuse me… I really must go and speak with Duolo's mother and father. I may be gone for quite some time…"

Jazz marched straight out the door, careful to keep his face perfectly expressionless, but Falsetto was no fool – Jazz had been her dearest friend since childhood, and she saw the agony beneath his neutral mask. She stood at the window for many minutes, watching as Jazz wended his way down the lane to the quaint log cabin at the far east end; he knocked on the door a few times, his face unmistakably solemn, and when Duolo's mother answered the door he moved immediately to comfort her.

Falsetto turned away from the window the instant Duolo's mother's face crumpled with despair, but there was nothing she could do to keep the woman's anguished cries from reaching her ears.

* * *

><p>Anguished and fatigued, the members of the third unit of Andantino that had survived the fateful encounter with Staccato at A Cappella limped tiredly into the boundaries of the underground city of Andante; Jazz was still consoling Duolo's poor parents, so Falsetto took it upon herself to meet them at the gates of the city. She took stock of each individual member as they appeared before her; some of them had sustained minor injuries, but aside from a handful of scrapes and bruises – and, of course, the loss of poor Duolo – they all appeared to be healthy enough. She specifically sought out the frail-looking warrior who carried the Crystal Echoblade, she of the solemn face and golden hair – Vivace.<p>

Vivace bowed low upon being addressed by first lieutenant Falsetto, but Jazz's second-in-command pulled her up to her full height immediately with a wry smile already in place. "There's no need for that. How are you feeling?"

"I am well enough, thank you." Vivace's eyes scanned her fellow third unit members rather protectively, it seemed; her concern for the others crossed her off Falsetto's list of potential traitors almost immediately. "There are far worse off than me… With all due respect, you should go to them."

Falsetto snagged a passing Timpani by the arm; he turned to face her, recognized who was addressing him, and hastily bent at the waist to show his respect. Using her grip on his forearm, Falsetto tugged him upright as well. "It's Timpani, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am, at your service."

"Are any among your unit in need of emergency medical attention?"

Timpani was in his element. "No, ma'am. All of the injured were properly attended to during the voyage to Baroque City. All these men really need now is some rest, and maybe a few square meals."

Falsetto nodded once sagely. "Then I entrust it to you to see them on their way. I have orders from Jazz to bring Vivace in to report on the mission in A Cappella. It's possible that I may also need to speak with you later, so please make yourself available if the need arises."

Timpani managed one more short half-bow before Falsetto jerked him back into a standing position, and saluting the first lieutenant he hurried back toward his fellow soldiers so that he could dismiss them to their homes. Falsetto slung one arm companionably around Vivace's slender shoulders and pinned her to her side, steering her toward the meeting hall. Vivace couldn't help turning a concerned eye Falsetto's way. "Erm… excuse me, ma'am, but…?"

Falsetto rolled her eyes to the heavens. "Please – it's Falsetto."

"Right… Falsetto." Vivace was looking distinctly uncomfortable now. "If you don't mind my asking, what is this all about?"

The question was left momentarily unanswered when Falsetto shoved the door to the meeting hall open, bringing the two of them face to face with the leader of the rebellion – Jazz, the strongest among them, the only member of Andantino who had fought in and survived the first unsuccessful rebellion mounted by the legendary Tenor several years previous. He was slumped over the long mahogany table in the seat of honor, his sleek black hair a disheveled mess upon his shoulders and the light extinguished from his normally keen golden eyes. He looked up tiredly when the doors swung open, and even hastened to take his feet when he noticed who Falsetto was leading along in her wake. Vivace's eyes were wide with anxiety and fear – in all of the time that she had served in Andantino, she had never spoken directly to Jazz before.

Falsetto steered Vivace into a chair, not at all surprised when the flabbergasted women practically collapsed into it. Jazz motioned for Falsetto to follow suit, and after pouring each of them a steaming mug of Baroque chai tea and setting a plate of snowpuff cookies between them, he sank gratefully into the seat at the head of the table. Seeing that the tense set of Vivace's shoulders still had not relaxed, Jazz managed to crack a weak smile and shoved the plate of cookies right up to her elbow. "Please relax. You have no reason to be afraid here. You are most welcome. Are you hurt?"

Vivace nervously waved a hand in dismissal and hastily swiped a snowpuff cookie from the plate to appease them both. "I am quite well, thank you." She snapped the cookie in half in her fingers, feeling suddenly clumsy. She couldn't take her eyes off Jazz no matter how hard she tried, awed by his obvious confidence and strength. "Um… sir…?"

Jazz chuckled weakly beneath his breath, looking just as exhausted as she felt. Falsetto rolled her eyes again. "I can see that you aren't one for idle chit chat – something that, I must say, I rather appreciate, given the current circumstances." His small smile crumpled into a kind of sad grimace. "Falsetto tells me that she has been in correspondence with you concerning the majority of the third unit's movements – I thought it would be prudent to talk with you, as opposed to your superior. I think, perhaps, it would be to my benefit to speak with you?"

Vivace took a bite of the snowpuff cookie, feeling slightly calmer at the pleasant sensation of the sweet cookie melting on her tongue. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment; it was clear that she wasn't at all used to being praised. "I… will do my best, sir."

"Please – Jazz will do just fine." Jazz made a visible effort to relax, though some measure of the despair he felt lingered in his eyes; he took a sip of his tea, inhaling the steam deeply through his nose. "Now… what can you tell me of the operation in A Cappella?"

Vivace straightened instantly in her chair; she had been certain that she had been summoned because she was going to be reprimanded in some way, but if Jazz only wanted her account of the happenings in A Cappella, she was more than capable of giving him that. "We arrived on schedule and found the city was already in flames… the citizens were already evacuating their homes and taking shelter in the safer districts on the other side of the island. Staccato was behind the attack. They were waiting for us."

Jazz nodded grimly; he had expected as much. "By your own estimate, was your regiment outnumbered?"

"Yes. Only Fugue and Rondo were unaccounted for; all the rest of the assassins of Staccato were spotted surrounding the city."

"If you were outnumbered," Falsetto broke in, balancing her elbows upon the table and leaning forward curiously, "then why did your group insist on doing battle with them? Why did you not retreat?"

Vivace lowered her head; her ears were now burning a bright crimson, though now she was blushing with shame. "With all due respect… I issued the retreat order the moment it became clear to me that we could not win. Our leader, Sostenuto, overrode me. It wasn't until we lost Duolo that Sostenuto declared the retreat order himself, and the surviving members fled to _Rubato_ and set sail for Baroque at once."

Falsetto was frowning savagely when next Vivace dared to look up; she glanced sidelong at Jazz, as if looking to him for answers, and with a heavy scowl he asked, "Your leader ordered you to stand and fight, even though it was clear that the situation was hopeless?"

Rendered momentarily incapable of speech, Vivace dropped her gaze back to the table and merely nodded her reply.

Jazz surprised her then by saying, "Then as far as I am concerned, Sostenuto himself is responsible for the death of Duolo." He laced his fingers together before him and asked broodingly, "Vivace… can you tell me who struck Duolo down?"

"I can." Vivace's facial expression changed dramatically then; the look of crumpled despair mutated into a kind of desperate rage when she growled, "Toccata."

Jazz and Falsetto exchanged a glance, wondering just what personal vendetta Vivace had against the assassin, but both decided this was a conversation best left for a more private setting. Jazz rose to his feet, shoving his chair away from the meeting table, demanding Vivace's attention. "You have told me everything I needed to know; now, it pleases me to share some news with you.

"It has come to our attention – " He looked again to Falsetto, whose eyes had hardened with hostility again. " – That we may have a traitor in our midst; someone may have infiltrated our ranks in order to pass vital information on our movements to the assassins of Staccato – or even worse, to Count Waltz himself. Our list of potential candidates is long, and it will take some time to narrow it down, but I believe that I can entrust you with this information – as well as the task of helping us weed on the informer."

Vivace was watching Jazz with that same expression of awe she had been wearing before, her pale green eyes burning like backlit emeralds. "I will do all that I can to aid your cause."

"I am certain you will." Jazz shot a wink her way. "That is why Falsetto and I have decided to promote you – you are a member of the elite unit of Andantino now, under my direct command. Your current leader – Sostenuto is his name, correct? – will be informed of the change to his ranks in the morning. In the meantime, your current task is this: for tonight, recover your strength. Tomorrow at midday, those who answer to my order will meet to discuss our next move against Forte. I would like for you to bring with you no more than three fellow warriors from the third unit that you would like for me to consider for this promotion also. It would behoove you to choose hard-working, trustworthy individuals who would best serve the designs of an Andantino that is prepared to be more aggressive toward Forte in the days to come. Oh, and one last thing: it would be wise for you to keep our suspicions regarding this information leak to yourself, you see?"

Vivace was still as a gargoyle in her chair, her face chalky pale with shock – the hand with which she clutched her mug of tea was trembling slightly, rattling the chipped china on its plain white saucer. In a rare act of kindness, Falsetto stretched one arm across the table and laid one hand upon Vivace's in an attempt to calm her. Jazz felt a small smile curve up the corners of her lips as the rattled woman managed a single, jerky nod.

"Good," said Jazz with a subdued laugh, crossing his arms. "You are dismissed. Find some rest this night, for tomorrow I daresay you will find little."

* * *

><p>Morning came all too soon for Vivace who, haunted by nightmares alternating between the death of Duolo and the cruel, merciless laugh of her nemesis Toccata, found little real rest throughout the night. Feeling just as fatigued as she had after marching back to Andante from Baroque she carried on about her morning, doing just as Jazz had ordered – relaxing when she could find the time, appointing her three most trustworthy companions as members of Andantino's elite unit, and, when her discipline slipped enough to allow it, thinking about the strange man she had been prepared to risk her life for back in A Cappella.<p>

He wasn't anything particularly special, she supposed – then again, being possessed of shockingly little confidence, neither was she – but there was something about him that kept wheedling at her focus. She was almost certain that it was because of her instinct, the uncontrollable belief that he was one of the fabled "gateways to the other world" for which Count Waltz was secretly searching, but there was no way to be positive.

Just before noon Vivace returned to the meeting hall, flanked by her best friend, Timpani, and the magic-wielding twins, Bolero and Gigue. Jazz was standing behind his traditional chair at the head of the council table with Falsetto already seated in place at his right; the other members of the elite unit of Andantino had already taken their seats and appeared to be waiting on them – Vivace realized guiltily that she could not guess any of their names with any confidence.

"Ah, Vivace," Jazz greeted her, and the kind and commanding presence that usually filled his voice had returned, it seemed. "It's good of you to have come! Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce our new comrades to us, before this meeting comes to order?"

"Of course." Vivace gestured to Timpani, whom she was certain everyone was looking at already: after all, he stood head and shoulders over Jazz, the next tallest among them. "This is Timpani, whom I have known since childhood. His repertoire of skills is rather impressive – he can wield a dozen weapons with more than moderate talent, as well as sail, brawl, navigate, and interrogate." She turned then to indicate Bolero and Gigue. "The one on the right here is Bolero – he has the amber eyes – and on the left is Gigue, with the blue eyes. I have found that that is the only real way to tell them apart when they are not casting spells in combat."

"Spells?" piped up an excitable-looking red-haired beauty at the end of the table nearest to them; she had laid her longbow and its quiver of arrows upon the table in front of her. "You don't mean – "

Vivace nodded, prepared, as she always was, to defend the twins if the need arose. "Yes, I do. Bolero and Gigue are twins who come from the lost city of Dolente. They wield magic freely and are hindered by no illnesses to speak of."

Seeing the tension that was already mounting at the mention of magic, Jazz stepped in to diffuse their fears. "And they wouldn't, if they come from Dolente as you so claim!" He spread his hands, seeming perfectly comfortable with the news. "As you all know, Count Waltz's court has very little understanding of the arcane; I daresay that you, Vivace, have made a very smart choice in bringing these two to us!" He indicated that they should sit. "You are all very welcome – please." As they settled into their proffered places Jazz finished, "Let the meeting commence. Falsetto?"

Jazz sat; Falsetto rose in his stead to address the group at large.

"Vivace reported directly to us last night – it seems that the assassins of Staccato were behind the ambush that led to Duolo's death on the island of A Cappella. It has also come to our attention that the third unit of Andantino needs to be placed under new supervision, as we can no longer be certain that the current commander, Sostenuto, has that regiment's best interests at heart.

"Now, on to other matters. Our primary point of discussion today is to vote on our next course of action. With Jazz's permission, I would like to propose a more aggressive move – one that targets not Count Waltz, as we have consistently aimed at in the past, but the assassins of Staccato, who could very easily be considered our true enemies at this point."

The other woman among them, sitting directly across from the redhead with the longbow, shuddered delicately and flipped her pale pink ponytail over her right shoulder. "What exactly do you propose, Falsetto?"

Jazz's first lieutenant regarded the woman who had spoken with a touch of disdain before squaring her shoulders and saying, "A direct assault on Hemiola."

Several among them gasped aloud at this declaration; Vivace herself covered her mouth with her hand, horrified at the very idea. They were all familiar with the place Falsetto had mentioned – Hemiola was a suburb of Forte City and, so their intelligence reports had shown them, the personal hideout of the assassins of Staccato. To even suggest mounting a full frontal assault on the place was a feat beyond the reach of Andantino.

"That's enough," Jazz chastised them lightly, waving a hand to bring silence back to the room, but he did not look pleased. "We will vote on this matter as we have voted on any other. Falsetto, if it comes to pass that this council votes in favor of your proposal, you will be responsible for organizing the mission."

Falsetto nodded eagerly. "Understood."

"Very well. Let's commence with the voting… Mazurka?"

All eyes turned to the man seated at Jazz's left, who had kicked his booted feet up on the table and crossed his arms across his barrel chest; his black hair hung in a curtain, hiding his face. He did not answer out loud, but no one mistook the shaking of his head for a vote in Falsetto's favor.

"Arabesque?"

The lovely young woman with the fiery red hair was plucking at the taut string of her longbow, seemingly oblivious to the muted _twang_ sound it made every time she did so. This did not bode well for Falsetto, who ground her teeth harder together for every second that passed. Eventually, Arabesque voiced her opinion. "This is a bold plan, Falsetto, and I commend you for suggesting it at all… if ever in my life I am half as fearless as you, I will consider myself very fortunate. However… I think perhaps you reach too high. Andantino is strong, with a vast influence and a wellspring of resources, but Staccato has the open approval of Count Waltz and would surely overwhelm us. I cannot give you my support in this operation… I apologize."

Jazz tried very hard not to look at Falsetto, who was practically emanating animosity. "Claves?"

The lady with the noble features and the pale pink ponytail batted her long black eyelashes in Jazz's direction, her magenta eyes sparkling when he said her name; looking embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable, Jazz busied himself with one of the buttons fastening his tunic and avoided her gaze. Claves turned her gaze almost brazenly upon Falsetto. "Do you not think that Staccato would crush us? That they would not rain their wrath down upon Andantino, just as they did little Duolo?"

Falsetto's intense green eyes flashed, making her seem even more intimidating. "I have always believed that this rebellion would suffer casualties in the pursuit of the greater good and a peaceful future. Then again, I believed just as strongly that all those enlisted in Andantino were just as willing as I to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve these ends."

Claves blushed, her cheeks the fragile pink of a spring rose petal, though Vivace could not guess why. "All the same… I do not think this is the best course of action for us. The risks far outweigh the gains."

"Vivace?" said Jazz hurriedly, trying to move the voting session along so Falsetto had no time to break into a tirade.

Vivace's eyes were searching Falsetto's; the first lieutenant's expression was almost pleading. She answered in her usual subdued voice. "I am also of the opinion that sometimes you must take aggressive strides in order to achieve a peaceful future, and after witnessing Duolo's death I believe now more than ever that we can no longer allow Staccato to terrorize innocent civilians on a whim. They must be stopped – if we are not willing to do this, then who will?"

Falsetto looked pleased when Jazz continued, "Timpani?"

"I'm with Vivace," Timpani said fondly, running a hand through his boyish mahogany locks with a daredevil smile. "You win some, you lose some, but none of that will ever happen if you don't try. We have to go for it."

"Bolero? Gigue?"

"We're all for it," piped up Gigue.

Bolero shrugged. "Somebody has to make Staccato pay for taking Duolo away from us."

Falsetto winked at Jazz, looking victorious, but the moment Jazz heaved a heavy sigh she knew that her excitement would be short-lived. "Falsetto… This is the most aggressive stride by far that Andantino has ever made against the assassins of Staccato… If we were successful, we could completely turn the tide of this secret war between Baroque and Forte. However, as the leader of this organization, you must understand – "

"Jazz!" Falsetto broke in, her face anguished.

" – That I am charged with the personal safety of every man and woman among us," Jazz overrode her, and though his voice was apologetic his facial expression showed no room for leniency. "We must seek out a new course of action. This is one that Andantino is not quite ready for." Jazz managed a small smile for Vivace, Timpani, Bolero, and Gigue, finishing, "Though it does my heart good to know that those among us who are new are not afraid to take up arms against Forte when necessary – I will keep that in mind as I plan our future endeavors. Of that, you can have no doubt.

"You all know that I am not a man of little action, and although I have rejected this proposal I am in no way opposed to discussing another. I open the floor to all of you now: Andantino looks to us, the members of the elite unit, to lead them upon what we believe to be the absolute best course of action. Let us discuss our next move. Suggestions?"

The meeting room was very quiet; Falsetto had returned to her seat and was visibly struggling not to begin seething in front of all of them, and Claves was still watching Jazz rather expectantly. It was obvious in his lack of participation that Mazurka was not about to make any such profound proposal, and Arabesque had returned to the melancholy plucking of her bowstring. Vivace was speaking before she even realized her mouth had opened of its own accord. "With your permission, Jazz, I would like to return to A Cappella."

Jazz looked mildly surprised, but he was an open minded sort and always allowed those who reported to him to explain themselves. "For what reason?"

Already Vivace was blushing furiously; Timpani snickered behind his hand. "I… Well…"

Arabesque rolled her eyes impatiently and Claves uttered a little sigh, but Jazz smiled and crossed to Vivace's side, dropping one supportive hand down upon her shoulder. "There is no reason for you to be afraid to express your opinion here. We are all equals."

"Y-Yes," Vivace stammered, and clearing her throat she did her best to speak bravely. "A few days ago, while we were in A Cappella… I can't be certain, but… I believe I saw one of the gateways to the other world."

Rather than gasp, as they had all done when Falsetto had voiced her proposition to them, the members of Andantino's elite unit simply stared back at Vivace. No sooner had the words left her lips did Vivace wish she could disappear.

Though Count Waltz and the assassins of Staccato placed a great deal of stock in the rumors of the "dream drifters", as they were so often referred to, there was very little proof to support that these outlandish claims were anything more than myth. Vivace remembered vividly, though, information that she had gathered on a reconnaissance mission for Sostenuto once, some months before when she had eavesdropped on a private audience between Fugue, the leader of Staccato, and Rondo, his second-in-command. Count Waltz, as it happened, had reason to believe that there were entire worlds beyond the one they inhabited, and that they were all connected in a person's dreams. Supposedly there were a rare few of these that Waltz called "dream drifters" or "the gateways to the other world" – these people had highly imaginative dreams, and could even spirit themselves away from their respective worlds and visit others while they slept! Though Andantino had always considered these claims ludicrous at best, Vivace had always had a mind to consider every avenue that Forte gave merit. After all, she had overheard Fugue tell Rondo that the gateways to the other world emitted an overwhelming amount of energy when they slept – energy so strong that, if Count Waltz were ever to get his hands on it, the world would be in jeopardy.

Now that she had brought her opinion to their attention, Vivace had little doubt – the man she had seen in A Cappella that day was one of the gateways to the other world, and one way or another she had to find him again.

Predictably, she was soon under fire; Arabesque leaned forward toward her, seeming affronted that Vivace had spoken her mind at all. "There is absolutely no proof whatsoever that supports that theory. A ridiculous story put forth by Count Waltz to distract us from our true objectives. How can you even waste our time with such idiotic claims?" The archer tossed her crimson hair over her shoulder and turned her disapproving gaze upon Jazz, saying, "With all due respect, Jazz, I must question your decision to elevate this girl to this unit. If this is what we are to expect from her in the future – "

"That's quite enough," Jazz snapped, his tone dripping with disdain. "I think you have made your position on this matter quite clear." He surveyed Vivace evenly over his laced-together fingers, his astute gaze burning figurative holes right through her, and when he had considered the possibility as much as he cared to he asked, "What makes you think you saw a dream drifter that day?"

Vivace lifted her head, looking unmistakably terrified. Jazz wondered fleetingly just what had happened in this woman's past to give her so little confidence. "I have no proof but this – the moment Toccata noticed he was there and moved to confront him, the man I saw vanished right before my eyes."

"A hallucination," sighed Arabesque impatiently. "Nothing more."

But Jazz didn't buy Arabesque's excuse, and even leaned a little closer to Vivace with something like wonder in his eyes. "He vanished, you say?"

"Disappeared?" gasped Gigue, his expression utterly spellbound. "Just like that?"

Vivace nodded but did not verbally respond, prompting Jazz to search her face for the clues he was lacking. Truth be told he knew very little of the woman – he had seen her in the city, of course, and had heard tales of her heroics told throughout Andantino – but there was something about her that made him want to believe her story. Despite the fact that he had never placed much stock by the stories of these "gateways to the other world", he found it difficult to simply dismiss her account. Her words rang with truth, and her face was desperate – it was clear she was praying that someone, anyone, would believe her.

Before Jazz could lend her his support, Falsetto beat him to the punch. "There is no other obvious explanation for what you saw… we all know that people don't just vanish. Do you think that if you went back to A Cappella you could find him? Could you pick him out in a crowd?"

The curious man Vivace had seen had not been before her for long – just the handful of seconds she had stared at him, mesmerized and disbelieving – but in those moments she had committed every little detail of his physical appearance to memory. She glanced up at Falsetto and nodded once – yes, she could find him, perhaps anywhere.

Falsetto turned immediately to Jazz, who already knew what she was going to say; Falsetto had never been one to stand still, and in the wake of her own plan being rejected she was undoubtedly willing to devote herself to whatever proposition Jazz agreed to first. Falsetto had been like that since childhood. "Jazz… with your permission, I would like to go to A Cappella with Vivace. Who knows? Count Waltz might be on to something here. Would it cause any harm just to validate or disprove his claims? What if the dream drifters do exist? What if Waltz gets his hands on one of them before we do? The consequences…"

"With limitless energy at his disposal, Waltz would certainly be capable of advancing his plans to make mineral powder stronger in potency," Jazz admitted, and he ignored Arabesque's fuming to decree, "Very well – Vivace, if it is your wish to return to A Cappella and search for the man you saw, you have my permission. I would, however, ask that you take one or two more escorts with you besides Falsetto, to ensure your own safety." Vivace and Falsetto, the only two among the elite unit who had been present to hear Jazz's theory of an information leak the night before, read his true meaning in his deathly serious golden-eyed gaze: _Arm yourselves well in case this course of action reaches Staccato's ears._

Vivace turned at once to the magic-wielding twins from the lost city of Dolente. "Bolero? Gigue?"

"With great pleasure," said Bolero with a rather shark-like grin.

Gigue dipped his head and tightened the spellcaster's glove upon his left hand. "Charmed."

Jazz nodded to all of them. "Very well; as far as I am concerned, this meeting is adjourned. The four of you have my leave to disembark at your earliest convenience."

Claves couldn't help but protest. "Jazz, you can't just let them walk out of here on such a pointless errand! What could you possibly hope to gain?"

"A better understanding of the things about which Count Waltz seems so well informed," Jazz explained simply, and he motioned for them all to rise. "Until next we meet."

* * *

><p>Much later, long after Vivace, Falsetto, Bolero, and Gigue had departed Andante, the assassin Fugue met with two cloaked and hooded figures in the little-used secret tunnel that Andantino had once constructed for an infiltration mission into the Forte Castle dungeon. The larger of the two cloaked figures glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, as though convinced that they had been followed to this place, but the smaller of the two stood before Fugue as though meeting with Count Waltz's right hand man was the most natural thing in the world.<p>

"Well?" demanded Fugue. "What is Jazz's next move?"

"Jazz will do nothing," said the smallest hooded figure, in a voice that was distinctly feminine. "Though he has given permission to four of our number to return to A Cappella on some silly errand."

"And what is this errand?" Fugue pressed impatiently.

"We have more important things to worry about right now!" shouted the larger figure, casting off his hood and stalking nearer until he was almost nose to nose with Fugue; the assassin did not react, other than to scowl in disapproval. "Jazz has demoted me, and promoted half of my unit! It's obvious that he suspects my involvement in Andantino's ambush in A Cappella!"

Fugue struck with the lightning-quick motion of a deadly snake attacking its prey, backhanding the much larger man with no small amount of strength; despite his greater size and bulk the larger man actually staggered back a step, lifting one hand and wiping a trickle of blood from his right nostril. Fugue looked positively disgusted. "Calm yourself, Sostenuto – it is entirely possible that he is simply displeased with the way you carried out your so-called mission. After all, you did belay a retreat order from your very own second-in-command, did you not?"

Sostenuto puffed up like a bullfrog. "Vivace has no authority to undermine my commands! The nerve – "

"Yet can you see how your actions have been perceived as… questionable?" sighed Fugue, speaking slowly and with exaggerated articulation, as if he were addressing a child.

Sostenuto considered this, and then abruptly deflated like a punctured balloon. "All the same, what makes Jazz think that he can just – "

"Jazz's authority in Andantino is absolute," Fugue reminded remorselessly. "Just as Count Waltz's authority over Staccato is never to be questioned. Do you see?" He turned at last to the smaller of the two hooded figures, asking, "What is this errand?"

"Falsetto is currently on her way to A Cappella," confessed the small figure in her delicate female voice. "Accompanying her are the magic-wielding twins, and Vivace, who believes that she came into contact with one of the gateways to the other world while in the city several days ago."

Fugue's eyes widened a little, the only indicator that what the hooded female had said had any impact on him. In truth, this was astounding news: if Staccato were to come into possession of one of the dream drifters, Count Waltz's ambitions would be easy to advance and achieve. Not to mention the riches that would fall to whomever collected the unfortunate soul to be experimented upon… "Do you have a description of the supposed drifter?"

"Unfortunately, no. Jazz was surprisingly tight-lipped in today's meeting." The woman shifted uncomfortably before adding, "I think it is a sign that he has guessed that the information that passes through Andantino is no longer secure."

"And that is precisely why Count Waltz saw fit to plant you in their midst," Fugue reminded, looping one arm around her diminutive shoulders and drawing her close to his side, pretending not to notice the little shudder that coursed down her spine at his close proximity. "I have direct orders from him… You are to continue passing as much information as you are able, but in addition to your current duties, the Count wishes for you to get closer to Jazz." Fugue lifted his free hand and brushed his index finger over her cheek. "As close as you are able, do you understand?"

The woman blushed, having deciphered his meaning, and bobbed her head once in reply. Fugue withdrew his arm, snickering beneath his breath.

"Four members of Andantino's elite unit are on the move, you say?" he reiterated, turning his backs on them and melting into the shadows of the tunnel as he walked away. "Perhaps I should pay them a visit."


	4. Carnival of Rust

Chapter Four: Carnival of Rust

"_Do you breathe the name of your savior in your hour of need?_

_And taste the blame if the flavor should remind you of greed_

_Of implication, insinuation, and ill will, 'til you cannot lie still_

_In all this turmoil, before red cape and foil, come closing in for a kill…"_

For days Frederic Chopin dedicated his every waking moment to the piano, composing magic with the stroke of every ivory key, playing until his fingers were sore and his mind was foggy with the exhaustion of creating the music. So rapt was his attention to his work that for five straight days he slept without dreaming; so fatigued was he by his labors that he did not revisit that strange land that had seemed so very real at the time. Every morning that he awoke he felt two distinctly different emotions – relief that his sleep had been restful and uninterrupted, followed by an almost crippling disappointment that he had not seen that golden-haired beauty in his dreams.

The Revolutionary Etude – his newest masterpiece, so named and so inspired by the turmoil sweeping through his beloved Poland – had been making some very fine progress since he had awoken from the terrifying dream in which he had nearly been skewered by the sword of a cruel-faced man he did not know. The emotions he had felt while dreaming had seemed so very real that he had harnessed them as inspiration for his music, but now he sought those dreams again in every moment he spent awake. All he had seen and discovered and felt was beginning to fade, and before he knew it he was composing desperately, as opposed to joyously; it was no longer the effortless creation of a man guided by a muse, but a man whose imagination was viewing the world in shades of gray instead of the vivid colors he could scarcely remember.

On the sixth night he lay down earlier than usual, thinking of anything that might stimulate his imagination into drawing him back into the world of his dreams. He closed his eyes and thought of the explosion that had knocked him from his feet, the fires that had felt white-hot against his fair skin, the sounds of children sobbing, of mothers crying out for their young fear –

Just when Frederic was about to lose hope that he would ever return, he saw her – the golden-haired woman who had been so willing to risk her life for him. Unlike the other insignificant details he had focused on before, his memory of her was neither elusive nor fleeting: he saw her as vividly as if she had just been standing before him, could feel the warmth of her kindness like the burning of sunshine on the backs of his eyelids.

She was like an angel, and she led him back into his dreams.

* * *

><p>In his dreams Frederic found himself standing in the center of the same avenue upon which he had collapsed – where he had watched helplessly as fire consumed innocent people's homes all around him. He wasn't certain how much time had passed, but it could not have been more than a few days; the homes he recalled catching fire were charred, empty husks of their former residences, and repairs had already begun. He knelt down and brushed his fingers over the tanned cobblestones upon which he stood, unable to suppress a smile when a familiar warmth spread up his fingertips. Looking around he could see no signs of distress, and for that, he was grateful. He then took stock of himself.<p>

Frederic's first thought, odd as it may seem, was that he was grateful that his imagination had fashioned something more chic and sophisticated for him to wear this time. In place of his ratty old pajamas he now wore a pair of voluminous navy trousers over sleek velvet boots, a matching navy gentleman's coat that draped down his frail artist's frame to his ankles over a vintage white shirt with white cuffs fastened away from his wrists by exquisite golden cufflinks. The shirt had a ruff and a high collar, and a large brass pocket watch was fastened upon his left hip by a matching chain; a navy top hat sat upon his dark cobalt locks, adorned with two feathers as bright as the midday sky. He removed the hat from his head and turned it over in his hands, perfectly mystified.

"Perhaps my imagination is more active than I had guessed," he chuckled to himself, and securing the hat back in place he set off down the lane to admire the sights.

Wherever he was, it was positively delightful. After traversing a couple of blocks he reached a district that had been untouched by the fire, and here the sights were simply wondrous to behold: on the corner of the lane was a bakery with its windows thrown open wide, and he lingered outside just to inhale the scents of fresh breads and cakes and cinnamon rolls; the next building over was a grocery store with a fresh fruit and vegetable vendor who had set up shop right outside in the sun, and he was barking his wares as Frederic strolled by, his mouth watering the instant he set eyes upon the fresh pomegranates. A kind faced woman with sunkissed skin was selling fine silks, laces, and linens across the avenue, and Frederic paused to admire a satin whose fabric was the hue of freshly-cut grass, and next to that was a tavern. Frederic lingered the longest in front of this establishment, for its windows, too, were thrown open to entice a spring breeze and music wafted from within. After a moment's deliberation he admitted himself, simply unable to resist a good tune.

Inside he found a welcome sight. Many of the patrons were scattered about, having a drink or a bite to eat, but all we conversing merrily with one another; a small trio crammed onto a small, rickety wooden stage at the far end was playing a lively tune for piano, violin, and flute, and several couples were dancing. He took a seat not too near but not too far from the stage, uncertain how he would be perceived as a stranger in this close-knit community, but after several songs it became obvious that no one was about to bother him. He laughed and clapped along and tapped his foot beneath the table, making merry with them, although he did not know them. All the while he kept an eye out for the woman with the hair that was as golden as warm afternoon sunlight, hoping against hope that he would see her face in the crowd.

At twilight the trio of musicians retired for an evening meal, and Frederic was compelled to leave his seat and approach the piano; the instrument was made of a darker wood that he had no name for, and though it was obviously well-used it was also well cared for. He ran his right hand gently over the smooth ivory keys, feeling the same magnetic pull running like an electric current from the piano through the tips of his fingers that he always did when he was preparing to play. Lifting his head he sought the gaze of the tavern proprietor, a balding man with a great, bushy mustache and muscular arms. "May I?"

The proprietor waved his approval and returned to tending the bar; Frederic touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in wordless thanks and took his seat upon the well-worn piano bench, scooting it a little further away from the grand instrument and nudging the pedal with his foot until he found the appropriate resting place for it. He brushed his fingers over the keys, wondering just what to play in a strange venue he had never visited, and then thought of the golden-haired girl again and played the first thing that came to mind.

Opus 10, number 9 – Etude in F minor.

He played softly and almost hesitantly at first, the feeling of uncertainty nearly overwhelming, but his confidence grew with every note that he played until he was smiling radiantly to himself. Gradually the talk that had created a din in the tavern died down until no one spoke at all, until the only sound in the entire establishment was the mournful, introspective song that Frederic commanded at his very fingertips.

And in that moment, Frederic Chopin was so happy that he wouldn't have been surprised to find that he had sprouted wings; he only wished there wasn't a roof over his head, so that he could take to the sky.

* * *

><p>"It's no use," said Falsetto, sitting down on a bench beneath a large tree with old, gnarled branches. "We've looked everywhere… I'm sorry, Vivace, but I just don't think he's here."<p>

Vivace nodded solemnly, prepared to agree with Falsetto's statement. The four of them had spent the better part of the afternoon and several hours of the evening combing every nook and cranny of the island and had yet to find so much as a trace of the man that Vivace claimed to have seen; in her desperation Vivace had even questioned a few of the locals, giving as good of a physical description of the man as she could offer, but every time she asked the answer was the same – it didn't sound like anyone that anybody knew.

Falsetto looked up to find Vivace looking quietly saddened, and felt her own face fall as a result. There was something phenomenally depressing about the girl: despite the fact that she kept her head up and insisted upon her brave face and her positive attitude, she always seemed unbelievably unhappy. The overwhelming sense of pity Falsetto felt for her prompted her to say, "I suppose we have time to take one more walk around the central block… maybe we'll see him there?"

"No," said Vivace, rather insistently; her eyes were glazed over, perhaps viewing something that Falsetto's eyes couldn't see. "You're right, there's really no point in going any further. I feel a little guilty… Jazz must think I'm just a silly little girl chasing after a fantasy world. Of course the dream drifters don't exist. It was foolish to ever think otherwise."

Falsetto couldn't help it – she reached out and laid her hand upon Vivace's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as she said, "If Jazz thought your proposal to look for that man was ridiculous… he never would have agreed to let you go in the first place."

She expected Vivace to say something in reply to that – at the very least, she assumed the girl would look grateful, even touched – but when Vivace remained completely silent Falsetto lifted an eyebrow and turned her gaze upon the younger woman; Vivace was staring blankly ahead, a strange light burning in her eyes the likes of which Falsetto had never seen. Following Vivace's gaze Falsetto came to understand just what had seized her rapt attention – there was a tavern across the avenue from where they sat, silvery moonlight glancing off its half-opened windows and the most lovely piano music Falsetto had ever heard pouring forth from within.

"You enjoy the piano?" Falsetto asked softly, trying gently to call Vivace back from her reverie.

Vivace shook her head, her magnificent golden hair cascading over her shoulders; in the moonlight, the strands looked like molten silver. "It isn't that… I enjoy music very much… it's just…" She broke off, frowning and gnawing on her bottom lip, and then suddenly leapt to her feet with that familiar smoldering look in her eyes again.

"Vivace…?"

"I have to go in there," said Vivace in a low, determined voice. "It's him. He's playing that music."

And without awaiting a reply she took off, sprinting across the avenue toward the pub. Falsetto blinked once, scarcely able to believe what had just happened, and only when Vivace reached the tavern and pushed her way through the door was Falsetto able to spring up off the bench and dash after her.

The tavern was quite crowded; it took Falsetto half a minute or so just to squeeze her way into the establishment in between all of the patrons that were visiting. She wasn't positive, but she couldn't recall ever seeing a tavern this full in all of her travels: was it the powerful pull of the music working its magic on all of these people, she wondered, just as it had ensnared Vivace? Falsetto was relatively certain she glimpsed Bolero and Gigue's faces in the crowd around one table, but she couldn't be certain: everyone was staring rapturously up at the grand piano on the cramped, rickety wooden stage at the far side of the tavern, and the suavely-dressed young man seated upon its bench.

It was many long moments before Falsetto realized that the music had stopped; the young man's fingers upon their respective ivory keys, so ready to move on to the next mesmerizing chord, had become suddenly still. His eyes, the color of warm honey, were wide with astonishment, as though he were glimpsing a dream that, against all odds, had become a reality.

He was staring, Falsetto came to understand with a jolt of surprise, directly at Vivace.

Frederic Chopin realized that everyone was staring at him, anticipating the next stroke of a key just like audiences always did when they witnessed him at the piano, but he no longer cared. Just moments ago he had been completely absorbed, even lost, in the music he had been playing, and on general principle he never let outside influences interrupt him while he played; however, something had pulled strongly upon his focus, so insistent that he had done the unthinkable and glanced up to take stock of his surroundings. And there she was – the woman with the golden hair, standing right in front of him as though she had been there all the time.

She was beauty incarnate – had an angel descended from on high to watch over him? Was the Almighty Father himself so pleased with Frederic's music, that He had deemed him worthy of this glorious creature? She was just shorter than him, and much thinner – she appeared so frail that he feared he would break her if he held her too tightly in his arms. She wore knee-high brown leather traveling boots that were worn from much toil, as well as a brown skirt with leggings and a vest of silvery mail, over which she had donned a deep green tunic cinched with a brown belt. There was a glove on her right hand and a shimmering gauntlet on her left – the glove, he assumed, was worn in correlation with the longsword she had sheathed upon her left hip. Fastened to her shoulders was a simple gray cape with a hood that she had thrown back, and a sheet of golden hair, finer than silk and brighter than the sun's rays, graced her slender shoulders as it cascaded down her back like a waterfall. She had high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the color of the palest emerald. She stood frozen beneath his gaze, quivering like a doe prepared to flee from a hunter. He had never seen anything so lovely in his twenty years.

The doors of the tavern crashed open then, and Vivace unwillingly tore her eyes away from him to see what had caused such a commotion – to find Fugue, Toccata, Gavotte, and Bellicoso filling up the doorway, looking both ferocious and victorious.

Vivace was already scrambling up onto the rickety stage before Gavotte shouldered her way to the front of the small group of assassins and lifted her crossbow; Vivace managed to seize the man by the ruff of his shirt and shove him to the ground, toppling over with him and landing on top of him hard enough to make them both exhale sharply. The first crossbow bolt was so close to striking Vivace that she felt it ruffle her hair as it passed overhead, and the last three thudded into the wall harmlessly behind them. Vivace glanced down just as the man with the chocolate-honey eyes looked up – their eyes met – and then Vivace deftly rolled to one side and came up into a ready position with the Crystal Echoblade ready in her right hand.

Falsetto elbowed her way to the door, bringing her hellcat gauntlets to bear as she did so, and the moment there was no one standing between her and Fugue she attacked with every ounce of fury she possessed. Fugue barely managed to raise his katana in his own defense before Falsetto struck her first blow; the crimson metal claws of her gauntlets clashed against the steel blade of the katana, emitting ruby and silver sparks, and from that point forward the two were locked in battle.

The terrified concert-goers and tavern-flies were now ignoring the doors to the pub completely and seeking other routes of escape so as not to get caught in the crossfire; glass tinkled as it was broken by a fist or an elbow and the patrons were leaping out of these to save themselves. The moment Falsetto was clear, and he was positive no innocent lives would be hurt, Bolero leapt from his chair and flicked a bead of flame off of his index finger to land right in between Gavotte and Bellicoso. To anyone who did not know Bolero and his unusual battle tactics, the small red droplet would appear harmless – perhaps simply a drop of someone's blood.

But Bellicoso and Gavotte knew Bolero, and instinctively took two steps away from one another.

Their flight was not quick enough by any means. The moment the red bead of flame touched the floorboards at their feet it erupted into a sphere of howling fire, engulfing the two tables closest to the door, the chairs encircling the tables, and the two unfortunate assassins of Staccato. The two of them managed to find their way out of the flames after a moment or two, coughing and spluttering and badly singed by the blaze, and before either of them could raise a weapon to retaliate Gigue was there, casting a spell to follow up his twins'. His glimmering left hand swept out before him and the floor on which the two assassins stood turned into a sheet of ice, many inches thick and so cold that the lingering flames from Bolero's spell had no effect on it; Gavotte managed to keep her feet but Bellicoso slipped and crashed heavily to the ground. Bolero was on his in an instant – or would have been, had Gavotte not retaliated so quickly. The moment the female assassin saw Bolero conjuring more flame in the palm of his hand she set another crossbow bolt to her weapon and fired; the small arrow pierced Bolero in the tender portion of the wrist and he recoiled, and the spell subsequently failed.

Toccata overturned a table in his hurry to reach Vivace, though at second glance she came to understand that his eyes were not upon her at all – he was staring at the man beside her like a hungry predator surveying a wounded animal. Vivace seized the man's hand and they leapt together off the slightly elevated stage, sprinted to the nearest window, and vaulted over the glass-strewn frame and out into the twilit streets of A Cappella.

Vivace took a quick scan of their nearby surroundings before setting off to the north, weaving in and out of the frantic townsfolk as she searched for a relatively safe place for the man accompanying her to hide until the situation was under control. As if to assure herself that he was still safe Vivace looked back at him – he did not look afraid, only as determined as she herself felt.

"Why are they after you?" Later she would be angry with herself when she remembered that that was the first thing she said to him, but at the moment it seemed vital.

He shook his head, flustered. "I do not know. I don't even know them! Who are they?"

She dragged him around behind one of the buildings – the bakery, maybe? It was dark now, and the moon was hidden behind the trees, throwing off Vivace's sense of direction. She whipped around to ogle at him, perfectly shocked by his response. "You don't know the assassins of Staccato when you see them? Where do you come from that is so isolated that you have no knowledge of them?"

"Warsaw!" he exclaimed, as though that should settle everything, and in response to her confused expression he elaborated, "In Poland! Haven't you heard of it?"

Vivace shook her head and said, "These are no places that I have ever heard of."

"What?" Suddenly the man's handsome, youthful face grew downcast, as though a dream of his had just been dashed before his very eyes. "How – "

As much as she wanted to get to the bottom of this unforeseen happenstance, Vivace had to admit that there simply was no time for it; she squeezed the hand she held in both of her own, derailing his train of thought, and lifted the fingers that were not hers up to brush against her smooth alabaster cheek. When she looked at him next his eyes had grown soft, as though she had whispered the sweetest words he had ever heard directly into his ear. Already he felt to her as a kindred spirit might, and it pained her to even think of leaving him. "If you remain here, out of sight, you should be safe. I must go."

She attempted to pull away from him but he tightened his grip on her hand and held her fast; now his eyes were wide and fearful. "Where will you go? To fight them?"

"They can't be allowed to do as they wish any longer," Vivace insisted firmly, trying again to free her hand and failing. "That is how it has always been – Staccato attacks the innocent without regard to whom they hurt in the process. And I will not let them hurt you."

"Why? You do not even know me."

"You're right," she agreed with a slow nod of her head. "But if you let me go now and aid in this battle, I will have the chance to know you – when they are defeated, and you are safe."

Reluctantly, it seemed, he released her hand – swiftly, as if in desperation that she would change her mind otherwise, Vivace drew her longsword a second time and took off at a sprint toward the pub. Rounding the corner of the bakery she dashed back into the street, to find that the battle had migrated from the tavern and right onto the main avenue; Bolero and Gigue, it seemed, were holding their own against Bellicoso and Gavotte – perhaps they had even gained the upper hand – but Falsetto was struggling to keep an even footing with Fugue, who was the most ruthless and skilled among Count Waltz's assassins.

Predictably, Toccata was waiting for her just outside the tavern; she squared her shoulders and moved to confront him, dropping into her familiar warrior's gait as she went and keeping her blade balanced and always at the ready. When Vivace was near enough Toccata spread his arms as if in welcome, saying, "Here you are at last. Did you find a snug little rabbit hole to hide your new friend in?"

"He is hidden well enough," Vivace assured grimly, brandishing the Crystal Echoblade before her and secretly rejoicing in the sound of its sentient angel's voice singing its unbroken, jubilant note of exultation. "Why should the assassins of Staccato trouble themselves on one man's account, anyway?"

"We could ask the same of the rebels of Andantino," Toccata countered evasively, and he drew his gleaming silver thinblade as he finished. "Allow me to offer you a deal – my master Fugue will call off this attack and graciously allow you and your friends to walk away with your lives. All you have to do is hand over the man you are currently hiding. What do you say? Doesn't that sound like a fair trade?"

"It depends," Vivace admitted honestly, though inwardly she was positively revolted by the idea of handing the handsome man with the youthful face over to someone as bloodthirsty and cruel as Toccata. "First, tell me exactly why you are interested in him, and what purpose he could possibly serve you?"

Toccata's mocking smile disappeared when he snarled, "What kind of emissary would I be if I betrayed the crown of Forte by sharing Count Waltz's personal machinations with a member of Andantino? Surely you know that his will is confidential to you."

Vivace shrugged, hardly surprised by his answer. "Then you must understand that it is my sworn duty to thwart the personal machinations of your master."

"Even at the cost of your friends' lives?" asked Toccata, waving an arm to indicate the ailing Falsetto and the blood-crazed Fugue whom she battled.

Vivace considered this very carefully, stealing a glance at Falsetto out of the corner of her eye – but Toccata had expected his question to split her focus, as she was always so concerned for the well-being of others, and the moment her eyes flitted away from him he lunged forward with the point of his thinblade leading. Vivace was quite nimble, though, largely in part because of her ultra-thin frame, and managed to quick-step back far enough that the blade simply tore open the tunic she wore and grazed the mail just over her ribcage. She kept her grimace in check quite well and whipped the Crystal Echoblade around, batting his weapon away, and with a cry that was almost jubilant Toccata engaged his nemesis in combat.

* * *

><p>Hiding still behind the bakery, Frederic's heart began to pound in his ears when he heard their two blades join together; all he could do was wonder – was she alright? Was she about to get hurt, or worse, lose her life… all on account of him? He buried his face in his hands in a moment of despair, his fingers chill and trembling against his cheeks, and then exhaled and let his hands drop helplessly down to his sides –<p>

The fingers of his right hand brushed against something hard and wooden; glancing down he recognized the expertly-crafted, exceptionally long and supple baton that he had retrieved by sheer happenstance on his first foray into this strange, exotic world. He had fashioned for himself, it seemed, a thin belt that had some manner of loop upon his right hip that acted as a sheath for the baton; he clasped the handle of the baton firmly and extracted it from the loop, inspecting its fine craftsmanship by the little light of the moon that had managed to filter through the dark clouds overhead.

Again, he was struck with the instinct that this was an instrument of battle, not simply a musical accessory. This time, he trusted his instincts on the matter.

With a sweep of his floor length coat he strode around the side of the bakery and out into the primary avenue running north-south through the darkened city; the only lights now were the occasional fire-lit sconce, the meager silver moonlight, and the flash of fire and ice as Bolero and Gigue continued to combat Gavotte and Bellicoso. Frederic stood, mesmerized for a moment, by the sheer grace and beauty in the golden-haired woman's unique fighting technique, but the moment Toccata lashed the flat of his weapon across her fingertips and sent the longsword spinning from her grasp, he knew that the moment had come for him to intervene.

And so he lifted the baton, as if to conduct a masterpiece.

His mind was an incomprehensible blur of thoughts and images in the instant he raised the baton in her defense. Frederic knew not what to say or what to do; he only knew that he must do something, else the woman he cared so deeply for already would not have the opportunity to make good on her promise to get to know him if he continued to stand idly by. So in the swirl of chaotic thoughts he settled upon one – he needed something, anything, around which to center his focus, to make the emotions he felt tangible, to convert his feelings into an attack. And what he fixed his mind upon was the coat of arms of Poland, the elegant yet terrifying ivory eagle with its magnificent golden talons outstretched to make the kill.

Frederic swept the baton through a graceful 4/4 pattern, his eyes on fire, and cried, "Orzel Bialy!"

And against all reason or logic, something did happen then.

The baton in his hand grew almost unbearably warm, as if he had picked it up after leaving it for hours in open sunlight or had held it too near to a fire; through sheer force of will only Frederic managed to keep his fingers clenched around it and locked his arm in place, keeping the end of the baton pointed directly at the man with the black hair who, at present, was raising his sword to deal a death blow to the golden-haired woman. The ground upon which the black-haired man stood grew suddenly bright, as if illuminated by a spotlight, and from the ground there emitted a column of pure golden energy that engulfed the man in fire and light. The effect lasted for barely a second, but that was all the time needed to accomplish what Frederic had set out to do: when the explosion of light had dimmed and then faded, the man with the black hair collapsed, unmoving, to the ground.

All other combat unfolding up and down the avenue came to a sudden halt – all eyes were upon this strange man in his unique, gentlemanly attire and the destroying baton he held aloft.

A tree off to the western side of the avenue gave a telltale rustle and Frederic turned in that direction, prepared to exact more vengeance if the need arose – out of the low-hanging boughs stepped a man with keen golden eyes and a monstrous sword, flanked by two large men and two women, one with a noble's rapier in her hand and the other with fiery red hair and a longbow. Frederic gritted his teeth together and thrust a hand out toward the golden-haired woman, and when he felt her fingers curve around his he hoisted her to her feet and instantly pushed her behind him, raising his baton as if to strike again –

"No!" she cried, seizing his outstretched arm with both of her hands, her face pleading. "They are not our enemies!"

The woman with the red hair lifted her magnificent longbow and loosed an arrow that pierced through Bellicoso's meaty calf; he howled and buckled at the knee, swooning into Gavotte and bringing her down beneath his great weight. The instant that the four newcomers had stepped out of the trees and onto the cobblestoned avenue, Fugue turned his back on Falsetto and fixed his eyes upon the man with the massive sword - who must be the leader of this band, Frederic realized, as he had stepped away from the others and was now moving forward as if to engage Fugue next.

"Falsetto," said the man with the golden eyes, his tone one of relief, and Falsetto wiped a trickle of blood from her nose with the back of her gloved hand.

"Jazz!" cried Falsetto, doing her best to appear fit but failing on account of her many injuries. "What - ?"

"Am I doing here?" finished the man called Jazz, and he uttered a sardonic chuckle and leveled his great sword in line with Fugue's chest. "I thought it best if I chose to oversee this mission with my own eyes. Here now is the truth of the matter – either Staccato is possessed of some all-knowing powers, or they have successfully planted one of their agents in Andantino. How else could they know of our movements here?"

Frederic glanced back at the golden-haired woman, whose pale green eyes were wide with anxiety. "You know all of these men?"

"Those who just arrived are Jazz, Timpani, Mazurka, Arabesque, and Claves," she explained in a low, hurried voice. "Those with me are Falsetto, Bolero, and Gigue. Together we make up the elite unit of Andantino." In response to the confusion in Frederic's eyes she added, "The primary task force of an underground rebel organization. One of our primary objectives is to stave off the violent attacks of the assassins of Staccato – of which Fugue, Toccata, Gavotte, and Bellicoso are all a part."

Her hurried explanation was interrupted when Jazz turned his head in her direction. "Vivace!"

The woman with the golden hair glanced past Frederic – so her name was Vivace? "Yes sir?"

Jazz might have chuckled then, but Frederic couldn't hear; at any rate, he did appear moderately amused. "Enough with the 'sir' already – is this the man you described to us?" Jazz ended by gesturing directly at Frederic, who found himself perfectly puzzled as to how he had become the focal point of their discussion.

Vivace bent double to retrieve her longsword, and when she straightened up she was nodding earnestly. "Beyond the shadow of any doubt, this is him."

"Very well." Jazz turned his eyes directly upon Fugue, whose scowl was becoming more and more sharply defined as the seconds wore on. "I have little interest in killing you, Fugue – our code of ethics has always been more refined than yours, as you know – so I will give you the option of retreating from here. Be mindful that if you decide to do otherwise, we will not hesitate to kill you – our superior numbers and skill would be your undoing. Make your choice."

Fugue fixed his steely gaze upon Toccata and gave a curt jerk of his chin as if to indicate that they should leave; they turned their backs upon their two comrades and set off down the avenue, in the direction of the southern wharf, and were long out of sight before either Bellicoso or Gavotte managed to scramble off the ground after them.

Every pair of eyes turned in Frederic's direction; he hastened to sheathe the baton back in place upon his hip, remove his elegant top hat and sweep into a most courteous bow. "Most gracious masters – I am Frederic Francois Chopin, of Warsaw, at your service. I do not know how to even begin to thank you for the great service you have done me – without your swift and valorous aid, I would surely have perished."

He straightened and replaced his hat at Jazz's indication, and Jazz even cracked a smile when he said, "It looks like we should be thanking you, Mr. Chopin – I saw what you did back there, and it undoubtedly saved Vivace's life. We are all in your debt."

Jazz finished by extending his hand in an act of greeting and goodwill; Frederic took it earnestly and they shook, smiling gratefully at one another. "Please – Frederic will do just fine."

"Frederic, then." Jazz's eyes slipped unconsciously from Frederic's eyes to the magnificent baton sheathed upon his hip; he seemed to think this quite rude of him, though, and snapped his golden-hued gaze back upon Frederic's at once. "An impressive thing you did back there. You must promise to show me more of your unique powers in the near future."

"When I discover what they are, I assure you, you will be the first to know," promised Frederic, and he and Jazz shared a laugh before the red-haired archer interrupted them.

"Jazz, Falsetto's wounds must be treated very soon," called Arabesque, and upon further inspection it was discovered that she and Timpani were crouched on the ground over an ashen-faced Falsetto, whose blood was staining the cobblestones upon which she lay. Jazz dashed over at once, handing his sword off to Mazurka as he knelt down beside them; Falsetto offered a weak little chuckle in an attempt to soothe him, but hearing how feeble her voice was it had the opposite effect on Jazz.

"I'm alright," she insisted, but Jazz shook his head at once, easing her into a sitting position and supporting her with his arm as he addressed the rest of them.

"The hour is late," Jazz insisted, "and we have wounded among us. It would be wise for us to relocate to an inn for the night and seek rest. Claves?"

"The White Swan," said Claves immediately. "Only two blocks from here."

"Excellent – Mazurka, why don't you accompany Claves to the inn and inform the proprietor that we will need rooms for eleven… also, that four of our number will need medical attention at the earliest convenience." Mazurka saluted and Claves offered a little curtsy before they both bustled away; Jazz clambered to his feet, Falsetto looking a little unwilling to be cradled so closely in his arms. Jazz was looking at Frederic again. "Frederic – under the circumstances, I must insist that you remain in our company tonight. You are, of course, free to travel about as you wish, but let me warn you – the assassins of Staccato know your face now, and as it seems that Count Waltz has taken some sort of personal interest in you, you will be in danger for as long as you remain here. You are most welcome in Andante, where the rebellion has gathered, but do not think that you are now our prisoner. You are as free a man as you were before we met you."

Frederic bowed again, but he was thinking of Vivace when he answered, "I would be honored to remain in your company, and I would consider it a privilege to visit your city. I… have nowhere else to go, it seems."

"I haven't the slightest idea where your home country is in relation to ours," Jazz admitted, and a crease had formed in his brow. "I do hope that isn't an indication of how far from home you really are."

"Indeed," murmured Frederic, a little sadly, it seemed, and together they trouped down the avenue toward the inn.


	5. Stay

Chapter Five: Stay

"_Stay, I need you here for a new day to break_

_Stay, I want you near like a shadow in my wake_

_Stay here with me, don't you leave_

_Stay, stay with me, until the day is over…"_

It was too easy to tell when Count Waltz's thoughts were not focused on the situation at hand, thought Sarabande – watching him from her throne on the other side of the ballroom, she could still clearly see the moment he lost interest in his conversation with that horrible little girl, Rondo, for his head tilted away from her and he now balanced his chin upon his hand. Waltz had always been like that, Sarabande reflected – short tempered, irritable, and easy to read. If she was prepared to judge based solely on Waltz's actions, and the fact that neither Fugue nor Toccata were present in the near vicinity, she could guess that the assassins of Staccato were currently on a mission in which their leader had a deeply vested interest.

Sarabande couldn't help but wonder, with a touch of sadness, just how many of Andantino's faithful would be laying down their lives tonight.

Seated on Sarabande's left was her older sister Serenade, and reaching out one delicate hand she tucked a stray lock of fine silver hair behind Sarabande's ear, murmuring, "You're daydreaming again, sister. Perk up. You know that Waltz doesn't like it."

"The only things he does like are deception, and war," reminded Sarabande proudly, with just a hint of the childishness that remained in her fifteen-year-old voice.

"Mind your tongue," scolded Serenade promptly, though she did not disagree – something that gave Sarabande a measure of private satisfaction.

Life at court in Forte Castle was far from unbearable – quite the contrary it was characterized by bountiful feasts every weekend, grand balls displaying the height of fashion and luxury, and every comfort and kindness that the two sister princesses could care for while in the company of their volatile cousin. The older Serenade thrived on court life; she had always been possessed of the grace and poise that their father, King Affrettando, had always insisted that noble ladies should display on a daily basis. Serenade delighted in the elegant gems her attendants placed in her pale blonde hair in preparation for parties, in the lacy petticoats and the crystalline champagne imported from Baroque City. She would have been completely and utterly miserable living a life that did not involve luxury, but since she had everything at the tips of her manicured fingernails, why would she ever have to consider such a lifestyle?

Sarabande, on the other hand, was not much like her sister. She had a noble's beauty, it was true, with a fine sheet of shimmery silver hair and the exotic violet eyes that ran in their family, but that was where her relation to her older sister seemed to end. Sarabande had never cared much for coiffing herself for the Count's lavish parties, nor was she at all interested in fine gifts or etiquette lessons. Most days she was quietly thankful that she had been born the second sister, because it meant that there was very little chance she would ever have to take up the ruling mantle for herself.

This was, perhaps, the only comfort in Sarabande's life – for the princess wished for little else than the freedom and danger that Forte's sworn enemies, the rebellion of Andantino, enjoyed every day. She would never admit it, of course – as a princess of Forte she was duty bound to serve not only Count Waltz's designs for an Andantino-free country, but the best interests of a public that adored her – but she had always abhorred the experiments with energy that Waltz was always scheming and would like nothing better than to throw her lot in with the rebels and work to build a future where the citizens of Forte were not forced to live in fear and uncertainty. She had heard of Waltz's wicked machinations from his most prized emissary, Fugue – who, consequently, was also the young princess's fiancé: how Waltz had been scouring the nearby cities for any who did not belong, for those that were said to be not just outcasts but the "gateways to the other world".

And now, if Waltz was to be believed, it seemed that they were on the verge of finding one.

The thought made Sarabande sick to her stomach. Waltz needed a vast amount of energy to achieve his designs – which none but his closest confidantes could even speculate – and how was he planning to collect this from a fellow human? Torture? Mutilation? Sarabande shuddered, despite the fact that the ballroom was quite warm. No matter what her older sister said, Sarabande would never believe that her cousin was anything but exactly as he seemed – a vile, vicious monster.

Well, a vile, vicious monster who had no equal when it came to political debate, Sarabande remembered begrudgingly – for not only had Waltz managed to quell the younger princess's quiet verbal mutinies but now it seemed as if he had at last found a way to sway Serenade's loyalty to her. Very recently Waltz had delivered a proposal of marriage from no less than Baroque Castle's own Prince Crescendo, and to Sarabande's ultimate shock, Serenade was prepared to accept.

Not that Sarabande was terribly opposed to the union – after all, Prince Crescendo often displayed opinions that were adverse to Waltz's own plans, and he was a secret supporter of Andantino; it was even rumored the Crescendo and Jazz, the decorated leader of the rebellion, were very dear friends. Under normal circumstances Sarabande would have rejoiced at the prospect of her only sister joining in matrimony with the goodly prince, for it would mean that Baroque and Forte would have to work toward peaceable relations and inevitably save Andantino many lives in the process. The reason that Sarabande was inclined to be so opposed to her sister's marriage was that it meant Serenade would have to relocate; she would become the Princess of Baroque when she bound herself to Crescendo, and that single move would leave Sarabande isolated at court.

Which, she supposed, had been Waltz's aim from the beginning. For while he tolerated Serenade's presence in his palace, he had always held little love for Sarabande – and her sympathies for Andantino.

The younger princess was stirred from her brooding then, as across the ballroom Count Waltz rose from his golden throne and proposed a toast in honor of Princess Serenade's engagement to Prince Crescendo. Sarabande did her best to paste a blissful smile upon her cherubic face as she lifted her glass of champagne in honor of her older sister, but inside she was already scheming. If she was soon to be left alone at court, and at the mercy of her wicked cousin, Sarabande fully intended to start opposing Waltz at every turn.

* * *

><p>The moment Falsetto's condition was stable and she had drifted into a fitful sleep, Jazz turned immediately to Vivace and said, "Tell me."<p>

"It is the same man," Vivace insisted, remembering well the day she had set eyes on Frederic for the first time and knowing deep in her heart that this second meeting was no coincidence. "There can be no doubt. I am even prepared to believe that he truly is one of the gateways to the other world – Warsaw? Poland? What manner of places are these?"

"None that I have ever heard of," Jazz admitted, and though he hated placing his faith in mere rumors or any such speculation he was beginning to believe. "You saw what I saw, didn't you? That attack he used on Toccata – it was magic."

Vivace nodded, her face downcast, for she knew what that meant. In the world they inhabited, those who could wield magic were said to have a chronic, incurable disease that was highly contagious. In short, it meant that if one could command magic of any sort, that person was soon to die. Unless, of course, that person was from the lost city of Dolente, as Bolero and Gigue were – but Vivace had already taken the time to question the twins about Frederic, and neither of them had ever seen him before.

"We must do all that we can to keep him from Staccato," said Jazz seriously, jerking Vivace's thoughts back to the matter at hand. "By now they will have suspected Frederic's great importance, and once they have told Waltz they will be coming for him with all of their wrath and strength. It is vital that Frederic agrees to come with us, back to Andante – it is the only place where his safety can be assured."

"Perhaps not even there," Vivace reminded gloomily, "since it is almost certain now that someone amongst us is playing both sides."

Jazz heaved a sigh. He looked just as haggard and tired as Vivace felt, but there was a suspicion in his eyes that prompted him to rub the sleep from his eyes and ask in a muted voice, "Who, in your opinion, are the most likely candidates?"

"I do not know any of this unit well enough to – "

"You know them well enough to speculate," Jazz interrupted insistently, then his eyes softened and he added, "Besides – I trust you."

"You barely know me," Vivace reminded stubbornly, though inwardly she was quite touched by his words.

Jazz considered, his dark golden eyes penetrating as he surveyed her. "I know you well enough to be certain of your innocence. There isn't a single malicious bone in your body – you could not possibly be behind such a great betrayal. Your opinion, please."

Vivace glanced out the window as she considered how best to answer; outside, it was just beginning to rain, and great drops were pelting against the glass frame as a slow, even pace. She recalled Falsetto's fierce loyalty to Jazz and the knowledge that the two of them had been friends since childhood; she remembered also Mazurka's rather uninviting temperament, Arabesque's standoffishness, and Claves' obvious attraction to Jazz. Though the answers seemed obvious to her, it was entirely certain that they were not the correct ones. "With all due respect, these are only my speculations… If I am wrong, and it costs you more lives…"

"I will take full responsibility," Jazz assured, and Vivace could no longer see any reason why she should keep her opinions private.

"Everyone around you could be suspect, Mazurka and Arabesque simply because they have displayed a measure of animosity of late. I would fear more, however, those closest to you – though she has been your friend for quite some time, it is possible that Falsetto may have been swayed by some outside influence. And though Claves seeks a place in your heart, you must ask yourself: is it because she cares for you, or because she has an ulterior motive to find a place there?"

Jazz blinked once, taken aback by her words. "I had never considered those angles before."

"Often those who are closest to us pose the greatest threat," Vivace admitted guiltily. "We deny that they would ever betray the trust we have given them, and we close our hearts off to the possibility that they would ever cause us pain. There is no greater agony than being betrayed by a loved one."

It was Jazz now who gazed thoughtfully out into the rain, his forehead creased as he brooded. Vivace gradually came to understand that the conversation was now closed, and that she would do well not to elaborate any further. She bent at the waist and took her leave, giving the leader of Andantino some much needed time to contemplate all that had transpired.

She knocked politely upon the door of Frederic's suite, and when he answered her summons his face split into a grin that was half genuine amusement and half pleasure at the sight of her. "Why do you knock? Surely you know that you are welcome here, no matter the hour."

Vivace stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed upon her own feet and feeling more embarrassed by the second. "The hour is late. I didn't know if you would be up to accepting visitors now."

Frederic offered her his hand and she took it; he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, his eyes as warm and inviting as a cup of hot cocoa at the end of a harsh winter's day, and led her into the suite. He closed the door behind her and motioned toward the hearth, where a roaring fire was blazing; it wasn't until that moment that Vivace realized her skin was quite chill, and she took a seat upon the dark hearthrug and immediately stretched her fingers toward the flames. Frederic set a kettle over the fire to warm a pot of tea, saying, "You are welcome here, or wherever I am, no matter the time of day."

"Why would you say such things to me?" inquired Vivace quietly, though her eyes were remarkably soft when next Frederic looked at her. "We know nothing about one another. We have no history together, no memories… nothing so profound has passed between us that could possibly warrant such feelings."

Frederic smiled his handsome smile, and abruptly, with that single facial expression, he had dispelled Vivace's uncertainty. He reached out and took her hands in his to warm them, and she did not object in any way; his fingers were much warmer than hers, and she found that she much preferred the feel of his soft flesh to the heat of the fire. "And yet you were willing to risk your life to protect me," Frederic reminded. "Do you offer your life so readily to every stranger that crosses your path?"

"No," Vivace admitted, and the color that flooded her cheeks had nothing at all to do with their close proximity to the fire, Frederic knew.

"Vivace," murmured Frederic gently, "the truth is that I have no logical explanation for the way that I feel. That moment I first set eyes on you, in the street while the city was burning, I thought that perhaps you were an angel that had been sent from the heavens to guide and protect me whilst I wandered in this strange world. How else might I have explained away your willingness to protect me from peril, or your presence in my hour of greatest need, or your overwhelming beauty? When I awoke all other details of my time here gradually faded until they were little more than dull memories, but I remembered your face, Vivace. I recalled everything about you with perfect clarity."

"I remembered you, too," whispered Vivace, unwilling to look at him should the blush in her cheeks brighten even more. "I came back to A Cappella just to find you." The tea kettle suspended by its bronze hook over the fire began to whistle, and Frederic reluctantly released Vivace's hands to see to it; as he was lifting the pot carefully off the flames with a pair of pot holders Vivace added, "What do you mean, when you awoke?"

Frederic removed his hat and hung it on a coat rack near the door, and when he turned back to face her a little crease had formed between his eyes. "I mean that I woke up from this dream, of course."

Vivace's mind reeled, so much so that she almost dropped the china mug full of scalding tea that Frederic handed her as he took up his seat on the hearthrug beside her again. "I don't think I understand what you mean. What dream?"

"I am not certain how best to explain this to you," said Frederic grimly, and he set his own mug upon the stone of the hearth with a clatter, his eyes solemn as he regarded her. "This world that you inhabit, and everything in it, is a dream that I created with my subconscious mind. At this moment I am asleep in my bed in the great city of Vienna, where I have been composing works for the piano since I arrived there earlier in the month. None of this – " He swept his arm out wide to indicate everything around them, from the flames crackling in the hearth to the rain pelting the windowpanes down to every last speck of dust, " – Truly exists."

Vivace stared back at him, as frozen as a statue, for many long, silent minutes; she had the look of someone who had been forced to memorize a great deal of information in a very short period of time, and was now struggling to recall it all before it slipped from her memory. Frederic waited patiently for her to wrap her mind around the impossible – though it seemed odd to him that he should be waiting for a figment of his imagination to be accepting anything at all. When at last Vivace regained her voice she was not despaired, or panicked, or even shocked, as Frederic had expected her to be – she was enraged.

"'None of this truly exists'?" she exclaimed, leaping away from the comforting arm he attempted to slide around her shoulders and striding angrily to the center of the room, where she fixed him with eyes that were as wild as an animals'. "I have never heard such an audacious claim from anyone I have ever met, Mr. Chopin! The land where I was born lies three days from here as the crow flies, in the grand city of Baroque! It is the place I have spent my youth and will continue to spend all the years of my adult life defending in the name of justice from the men that attempted to claim your life just this evening – or have you forgotten? I have shed tears here, and blood; I have shared the laughter, triumph, and despair or my closest friends and comrades, and I have watched them fight and die in the name of freedom! Mere hours ago you fought alongside us – why would you do such a thing if you were convinced that our lives existed only for your own personal entertainment? If this is all a dream, then why were you so afraid that you would lose your life the first time you visited?"

Sitting there, the object of the destroying angel's wrath, Frederic could think of only one thing to say in his supreme sadness. "Please… do not call me Mr. Chopin. Such formality… I cannot bear it from you."

Vivace exhaled sharply in an attempt to dispel her anger; this helped somewhat, and when she looked upon him next her eyes were filled with apologetic sympathy. "Forgive me. It was wrong of me to be so cruel to you."

"It wasn't." Frederic took his feet and crossed the room to her side, only a little apprehensive in his movements, and took the frail woman in his arms. Vivace lay her head upon his chest and did not object to him being so near; the sound of his heartbeat pulsing in her left ear was very soothing, and she used it to slow her own heartbeat and return to a healthier state of mind. "The things I said to you were thoughtless and hurtful. You were right to be so upset with me."

Standing there, wrapped in Frederic's arms, with the fine fabric of his coat under her hands and the sound of his heartbeat thudding in her ear and the sweet scent of his unusual cologne filling her nostrils, Vivace couldn't help but ask, "If none of this is real, how do you explain it all? The sights, the sounds, the sensations?"

Frederic closed his eyes and breathed deeply, filling his nostrils with the heavenly ardor of Vivace's hair. It smelled precisely as hair as golden as hers would be expected to smell – like warmth, like sunlight in a bottle. Holding her, it was so easy to convince himself that everything around him was reality, and that the world he had left behind was a hollow shell of a life he had known, once. "I do not have the answers, Vivace. I am only telling you that when I closed my eyes that day, I reopened them and found myself in precisely the same place I had been when I fell asleep the night before."

They retreated together back to the hearth, which was dying down a little; Frederic tossed another log on the pile of already-burning wood and used the fireplace poker to stoke up a blaze. Vivace was just taking her first sip of tea when he sat down on the rug beside her; the tea tasted of eucalyptus. "And where do you see yourself when you wake?"

"Vienna. It is a city in Austria that, at the moment, is serving as the hub for all creativity in Europe." The vacant look in Vivace's eyes was all Frederic needed to know that he should elaborate. "Europe is one of the continents in my world, Austria is a country on that continent, and Vienna is a city within that country. At present, musicians and artists from all over that country are seeking refuge there, as well as fame. I myself journeyed there in order to better myself in my craft."

"And you play the piano there?" Vivace inquired, cradling the teacup in both her hands and letting it warm her fingers.

Frederic nodded. "My skill in playing the piano, and at writing great solo compositions for it, is what gained me the notoriety that I have there. I orchestrate music for other instruments, as well as several ensembles, but the focus of my talents is deeply vested in the piano."

"I heard you playing your music from the street," Vivace confessed, remembering the alluring pull of the music and how it had drawn her into the tavern where she had found Frederic. "It was lovely… I am no expert, but I believe you are very talented."

"You're very kind." Frederic bowed his head in thanks of the compliment. "Somehow I knew that if I played, you would hear it, and you would come…"

Though much calmer now, Vivace's mind was still reeling with the idea that the world she knew so well was simply a dream that one person had conjured. She was unwilling to upset Frederic, but she couldn't keep the words from spilling from her mouth when she said, "The assassins of Staccato were looking for you because of a curious myth their leader places great stock in. They believe that there are worlds beyond our own, and that it is possible to connect all these worlds when a person dreams while they sleep. The people who are capable of accessing other worlds in their dreams are called "dream drifters" or "the gateways to the other worlds". I believe that is why they were after you."

Frederic blinked slowly, looking mildly puzzled by this information. "Even if that is true – and that is the most realistic explanation for what is happening that I have heard thus far – what use could I possibly be to them? What could they hope to gain?"

"According to the information that I have, the leader of the assassins – his name is Count Waltz – wishes to abduct one of the gateways to the other world for use in his experiments. Aside from the fact that he believes he can harvest energy from these individuals in some way, we do not know what he hopes to gain through his labors." Vivace heaved a sigh, hugging herself against a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the climate – after all, she was just a few feet away from a roaring blaze. "I would say that his ideas seem ludicrous, but… here you are, living proof that the dream drifters do exist. I suppose that if you are here, anything is possible."

Frederic shook his head in an attempt to absorb this new information. "But… how would a person harvest energy? From a human… is that even possible?"

"I do not know," answered Vivace, her voice filled with a kind of quiet terror. "But I do not want to find out, and so I will do everything in my power to keep you from him."

Her declaration of protection touched him quite deeply; Frederic took her hands in his again, and they stared together into the dancing flames without speaking for quite some time.

He didn't remember closing his eyes and he certainly couldn't recall sleeping, but the next time Frederic opened his eyes he was curled up on the hearthrug; his head was cradled in Vivace's lap and she was absentmindedly stroking his hair with her fingers. Despite their close proximity to the flame her fingertips were still just a little too cool; they were a nice contrast as they brushed across his forehead, which was now almost feverish with warmth. Looking up, Frederic found her watching him; her eyes were heavy with exhaustion but she looked happy, and content. She smiled down at him. "You sleep even in your dreams? How odd. Tell me – when a person sleeps while he is already sleeping, does he dream within his dream, too?"

Frederic considered, basking in the feel of her strangely cool fingertips as they ran gently through his hair, and found that he could not recall having a dream of any kind. The little crease of worry had appeared between his brows again when at last he asked, "How long did I sleep?"

"Not long. An hour. Perhaps a little longer." Vivace did her best to stifle a yawn, but didn't quite manage it; Frederic smiled, and reluctantly eased himself out of her lap.

"I think you should find some rest yourself," Frederic insisted, and though she protested he had little difficulty in convincing her to curl up on the rug as he had done, letting what flames that remained in the hearth lick her front. She lay her head in his lap and his hands instantly tangled themselves in her sheet of thick golden hair – it was just as soft as it looked, and finer than silk. She watched his face, fascinated by the happiness she saw there.

"What are you thinking about?" Vivace asked, when Frederic's smile became bland as a person's usually does when their thinking becomes absentminded.

Frederic hesitated to answer, largely in part because he didn't want to be the cause of her unhappiness if he could avoid it, but she was looking up at him expectantly and neither did he want to disappoint her. "I was just thinking that I hope you're right, and that this world is as much a reality as the one I am familiar with."

"Why?" she asked, her pale green eyes clouded with suspicion. "What made you change your mind?"

He reached out and touched her lips with the fingertips of his right hand; she stiffened, uncertain, but relaxed a moment later. His smile was far too disarming for her to be concerned about anything, and his answer melted her heart. "Because I don't think I could bear to live in a world where you do not exist."

Vivace's eyes shone as though they would overflow with tears; they spent the rest of the night together, curled up by the fire and gazing longingly into one another eyes, until long after the storm had blown over and the sun rose over the island of A Cappella.


	6. Save Me

Chapter Six: Save Me

"_Looking at myself in the mirror_

_Funny I should see only headlines and ads to my name_

_I was told I'd see my ally_

_So who are these skeletons with guns taking aim…?"_

The crown veritably shattered as it struck the floor; shards of precious stones scattered in every which direction, casting hues of amethyst, ruby, and aquamarine upon the walls as the light caught the gems. The ruined accessory impacted the floor three times before it struck the wall at the far end of the audience hall and came to a rest, its golden circlet bent beyond repair, but none now in the company of the infuriated Count Waltz were fool enough to break rank and retrieve it for him.

Waltz stalked down the red velvet stairs until he was standing just inches away from Fugue, who kept his gaze fixed carefully upon the floor and did not object when the count seized the front of his tunic and dragged him forward another millimeter or two. "Look at me!" Fugue's eyes flitted up when prompted; Waltz's face was red with red, his breathing quickened, his eyes shining with violet fires. "Explain! I gave you specific orders, did I not? You accepted your task without question, beyond the shadow of any doubt, did you not?"

"Yes, Count," replied Fugue, though he wasn't fool enough to believe that any amount of placating words would soothe his master now.

"Then explain to me, Fugue, why you had the audacity to return here without completing your mission! I gave you clear and concise orders – that you were not to return to me unless you had the gateway to the other world in your custody!" Waltz shoved Fugue backward, and though the assassin stumbled, he managed not to fall. "So where is he? I see no person matching that description among you!"

"Please, Count Waltz," whined Gavotte pathetically; Fugue wished Toccata wasn't standing between him and the girl, just so that he could slap her. "It was Jazz, he knew we would be there, we were hopelessly outnumbered – "

Fugue got his wish when, just moments later, Waltz stalked over to where Gavotte stood cowering and backhanded her with the black glass gauntlet he wore; she staggered backward and collapsed, whimpering and attempting to stem the blood now flowing freely from her nose. Waltz regarded her remorselessly, looking like a man possessed. "I don't give a damn if it was Jazz! I don't give a damn if you were outnumbered one hundred to one! You gave me your word that my will would be done, and here you are! Well? Is it done?"

"No, Count," gasped Gavotte, and she managed to struggle back to her feet despite the crimson liquid now staining her face. Waltz whirled away from her, pacing back and forth before them, too furious for words.

"Your Eminence," spoke up Toccata, raising his head a minute degree to look Count Waltz in the eye. "If I may."

Fugue glanced to the left as if to warn Toccata against speaking his mind, but his fellow assassin paid him no heed. Waltz had stopped dead before Toccata, looking very much like a bomb about to explode. "Speak. But I warn you – if you undermine me, I will have you killed."

"Of course, Count." Toccata straightened up, his face emotionless, his voice perfectly monotone. "Though I lament our inability to carry out your wishes, I must insist that the mission was not a total failure. We know well enough where the dream drifter will be, and whose company we will find him in: he is with Andantino, and they will take him back to their hideout without delay. It is the only way they can ensure his safety."

"So what are you suggesting? That we invade Andante?" Waltz turned on his heel and stalked away from Toccata, snickering as though the mere idea of this were preposterous. "The whole of Andantino would fall upon you the moment you walked in. Granted – you would have the element of surprise on your side, thanks to our secret operatives, but how long do you think you would have the upper hand? Five minutes? Ten? You would be walking into a massacre, Toccata, and while I am not completely opposed to ridding myself of a few of you – " Waltz shot a poisonous glare Gavotte's way as he said this, " – I simply cannot risk losing all of you. At present, a few of you still have some use to me."

"With all due respect, Count," Toccata continued, "I was not suggesting that we should invade Andante. I, like you, believe the very idea to be folly."

"Then for God's sake, tell me why you have demanded my attention before I lose my patience with you."

Toccata bowed low. "Sostenuto is about to lose his life as it is – it is only a matter of time before he makes some mistake that draws attention to himself, and you know as well as I do that Jazz does not suffer traitors to live. Might I suggest that you prolong Sostenuto's usefulness before his inevitable end? Call in the order for him to seize the dream drifter and deliver him to you. Give him permission to kill any who oppose him – he is large and strong, and could take many of Andantino's members down with him. Even if he fails in the attempt, Andantino will mourn the loss of several of its members. You can only benefit in this situation."

Waltz turned back to face Toccata with almost exaggerated slowness, one pale blonde eyebrow crooked with interest. Toccata's eyes remained perfectly uninterested, until Waltz flicked a finger in his direction and said, "I want that dream drifter in my possession, whether we lose Sostenuto or not. Issue the order. I leave the operation in your hands, Toccata."

"I will see that it gets done, Count."

* * *

><p>Two days later the elite unit of Andantino, along with Frederic Francois Chopin, was taking a short break from their journey back to the hidden town of Andante at a way-station quite familiar to the rebellion; Cantabile Inn was the last refuge for travelers between Adagio Swamp and Woodblock Groves, and would be the group's final stop before reaching Andante. The weather was quite warm – most of Andantino's members were lounging on the grassy hill just outside the inn – and they were all deep in amicable conversation when a single white dove alighted upon the lowest hanging branch of the cherry tree beneath which a few of their number were relaxing. Jazz rose to his feet at once and extended his arm, and the bird fluttered down to rest upon the outstretched finger the rebel leader offered to him.<p>

"How unusual," Frederic commented to Vivace, who was sitting with her back resting against his own and the fingers of her right hand intertwined with those of his left. "In my world it is quite rare to see a dove outside captivity, and they generally avoid people."

"This dove is trained," Jazz confided, and upon closer examination Frederic observed a small piece of parchment tied to the dove's leg with a strand of twine. "Ever since I established Andante as the hideout for the rebellion, this dove has served as the primary means of communication between Andantino and Baroque."

"Jazz is close, personal friends with Prince Crescendo, the leader of Baroque Castle," Falsetto told him, and Frederic nodded along to show that he understood. "Prince Crescendo has been one of our greatest supporters – ever since the fall of the previous rebellion and the rise of Andantino in its place, right Jazz?"

But Jazz wasn't focused on their conversation any longer; his eyes were locked on the thin strip of parchment he had unrolled from the dove's leg and his face had grown taut with concern. Falsetto immediately leapt to her feet, her hands balled into fists. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Interesting," mused Jazz, his eyes flying over the message a second time before he looked up to regard his fellow rebels. "It seems that Prince Crescendo has decided to take a more conventional approach toward achieving peace with Forte. He has extended an offer of marriage to Princess Serenade, the eldest of King Affrettando's daughters."

"What?" exclaimed Arabesque, leaping to her feet beside Falsetto.

"Who are these people?" asked Frederic in an undertone, feeling Vivace's fingers spasm with shock around his own. "Are we opposed to this union?"

"King Affrettando was succeeded by his nephew, now Count Waltz, when he passed away not long ago," Vivace explained quietly. "His two daughters, Serenade and Sarabande, are princesses of Forte Castle. Baroque and Forte have been opposed to the agenda of the other for many years now, though war has not yet been declared. That is why Prince Crescendo has Andantino, and Waltz has Staccato – we carry on their power struggles in relative secrecy."

"A fair summary of the situation," Jazz commended her, passing the note off to Falsetto as he addressed Vivace. "Though you did not mention the real interests of Andantino and Staccato, and why we despise one another so." An uncomfortable silence settled upon the grassy hill at this, and when it became clear that Vivace wasn't prepared to elaborate any further Jazz finished, "It is because Count Waltz's right hand operative, Fugue, assassinated Prince Crescendo's father, King Maestoso – and two days later, I killed King Affrettando myself, on Prince Crescendo's order."

Falsetto diffused the mounting tension then with an outburst; she seized Jazz's arm and shook the small slip of parchment in his face. "What is this? This note says that not only did Crescendo – "

"_Prince _Crescendo," Jazz corrected protectively, his teeth set in rage.

" – ask for Serenade's hand in marriage, but that she accepted! They are to be wed in midsummer…" Falsetto's eyes widened to their very largest. "The date is only a tenday from now!"

"Yes," answered Jazz tersely, and he was visibly trembling with the effort of subduing his own anger. "Yes it is."

Frederic was the only one brave enough to speak – though perhaps it had nothing to do with his courage, but his ignorance on the matter. "I'm sorry, but… Is this not an occasion to be pleased with? If the leader of Baroque joins with one of the princesses of Forte, will their marriage not unite the two kingdoms and end any forthcoming dispute?"

Jazz was now pacing to and fro beneath the boughs of the cherry tree, his scowl so pronounced that the expression might have been permanently chiseled into his face. "I am certain that that is what Waltz wants Prince Crescendo to think."

"What do you mean?" demanded Mazurka, who had just leapt to his feet also.

"You suspect Waltz of foul play where the marriage is concerned?" inquired Timpani, looking enraged at the thought.

"My friends," said Jazz simply, pausing before them mid-stride and fixing them all with a very serious stare. "It is my job to suspect Count Waltz in everything that he does."

They were all putting their heads together now; the idea of Crescendo and Serenade joining hands together in marriage was no longer a celebratory occasion, but a date riddled with secret disasters. "It all makes perfect sense," breathed Falsetto. "Why else would Waltz agree to let his eldest cousin marry his most hated enemy?"

"Because there is something that he hopes to gain from the union," mused Arabesque, catching on.

"Something that has absolutely nothing to do with his 'joy' at these arranged nuptials," added Timpani, "and nothing to do with the peace between Forte and Baroque that would inevitably follow."

At last, Jazz said the thing they were all afraid to voice aloud. "Waltz means to assassinate Prince Crescendo. And with no heir to succeed him, control of Baroque Castle would automatically fall to Serenade."

"And then Waltz would rule absolutely," finished Vivace, and they were all standing facing one another now. "With no one left to oppose him."

Jazz ran a hand through his black hair, his golden eyes blazing as he thought hard on the matter. No one interrupted him; he was their undisputed leader, and they needed his guidance now more than ever. He returned shortly to his element, pointing at Arabesque. "Go in and wake the twins, and tell Claves to gather all of their things. We are leaving as soon as everyone is ready." The moment Arabesque moved away from them, Jazz turned to Falsetto, Mazurka, and Timpani. "You three must go ahead of us, and reach Andante as soon as you are able. Timpani – I am placing you in charge of the city in my stead – place Andante on high alert and double the security. It is possible that Staccato will attack during the wedding festivities." Jazz then set his eyes upon Frederic, whose fingers were still entwined with Vivace's. "It is up to you, my friend, where you would prefer to be. If you feel that you will be safer in Andante, you have my permission to remain there while we attend to this matter. If you would like to accompany us to Baroque, I would be honored by your presence. But now more than ever, you must surround yourself with the members of Andantino, or you will be in peril."

"Baroque?" asked Frederic. "But why - ?"

"I have no choice but to go there," Jazz explained. "We must infiltrate the city prior to the wedding and give Prince Crescendo all of the added security we are able. If Waltz truly means to assassinate him, then we must stop it."

Frederic looked immediately to Vivace. "Where will you go?"

Vivace lifted her chin proudly. "I am a part of Andantino's elite unit. I could never abandon my comrades now – they are not just my allies, but my friends. I will go to Baroque."

"Then if your offer still stands, Jazz, I will accompany you to Baroque," said Frederic solemnly. "I will do my best to aid you and your compatriots."

Jazz clapped Frederic companionably on the shoulder, smiling a genuine yet very grim smile. "I thank you." Falsetto, Mazurka, and Timpani were preparing to depart, and to them he called, "We will be along as soon as we are able. I must pen a reply to Prince Crescendo without delay, explaining to him our intentions and our itinerary. Be off!" They set off to the west at a quick and steady pace, just as Claves, Bolero, and Gigue were hurrying out of Cantabile Inn toward them. "You three! Gather your things! We leave as soon as my reply is on its way!"

Frederic seized Vivace's hand and forced her to look him in the eye, and the fear in her eyes was easy to read. "I swear to you," he murmured, his voice filled with passionate intensity, "no harm will come to you."

Vivace nodded, but at that moment, it was difficult to be certain.

* * *

><p>"Make no mistake of this," snarled Toccata, pacing back and forth in front of the enraged Sostenuto. "If you fail to produce some manner of success from this operation, I will personally return here and kill you myself. I have no reservations in moving about Andante. I would dispatch you and be gone before any even knew I had come."<p>

Sostenuto towered head and shoulders over Toccata – and had one hundred pounds on him at the very least – but he wasn't fool enough to believe that he could defeat the skilled assassin in single combat. "Count Waltz had better be prepared to reward me when I make it to Forte with that dream drifter in my possession. The risk – "

"Count Waltz will most certainly reward you if the mission is successful," Toccata cut in icily. "He will allow you to keep your miserable life. By our calculations, the remaining members of Andantino will be back in the city later tonight. That is when you will need to strike."

"Yeah, yeah," grunted Sostenuto, and he turned his back rudely on Toccata and sauntered away, weaving his way back through the familiar halls that connected the Forte Castle dungeon to the hidden city of Andante. "I'll get it done."

"For your sake," growled Toccata beneath his breath, "you had better."

* * *

><p>Alone inside the inn suite where Bolero and Gigue had been sleeping, Jazz penned his reply to Prince Crescendo's note as quickly as he could manage. His intuition was insisting quite strongly that something wasn't as it seemed – something was, in fact, very wrong, though he didn't know what it could possibly be. He wanted to hurry on ahead to Andante, to see with his own eyes that his friends were all still safe, but he had other duties to attend to and couldn't risk neglecting them now.<p>

He swiftly reread the words he had written, hoping his reply would suffice.

_Prince Crescendo,_

_First, allow me to congratulate you on your upcoming marriage to Princess Serenade of Forte Castle. I have heard on many accounts that the princess is both lovely and wise, and I am certain that you have made a good choice._

_However, I beg you to be especially vigilant in the days to come. While I do not suspect your fiancée of any foul play, I must question Count Waltz's hand in these matters. It seems to me that that count would never have agreed to this union unless he had something to gain. I fear that he will make an attempt on your life, and that I simply cannot allow._

_I will be leading the elite unit of Andantino into Baroque City within four days' time, though it may take a little longer for us to arrive. I have been away from Andante for several days and I do not know what shape I will find the city in upon my return. You have my word, though, that I will be there, and that I will do everything in my power to protect you._

_Be strong, my friend._

_Jazz_

He clucked softly and held out one hand, and the dove that had delivered Prince Crescendo's letter to him fluttered from the windowsill and came to a rest upon Jazz's index finger; he secured the little rolled up note to the bird's leg with the same string of twine, and then moved to the open window. Outside he could see Claves, Arabesque, Bolero, Gigue, Vivace, and Frederic standing in the grove of trees by the lane leading up to Cantabile Inn, waiting for him so that they could depart.

"Fly swiftly, little one," he told the bird earnestly, and with a soft coo the dove fluttered off his finger and took to the sky. He watched it until its slim white-feathered body became eclipsed by the sun, and then he turned his back on the window.

* * *

><p>Timpani was waiting for Jazz when they arrived, just after dusk; his face was unmistakably grim, prompting Jazz to immediately close the door to the conference room behind him. Timpani crossed his arms. "Everything seems normal in the city; I checked to make sure everything was on the up-and-up, just as you asked. Falsetto and Mazurka even made a pass through Lento Cemetery, and they reported no unusual or suspicious activity."<p>

Jazz cocked an eyebrow, feeling mildly unsettled by the grim set of Timpani's jaw. "And yet you feel that something is still amiss?"

Timpani shifted uncomfortably – he looked nervous now. "I left the city and visited the tunnel we constructed, the one that leads from the grotto in Hanon Hills to the basement beneath Forte Castle dungeon. The floor there is mostly dirt, if you recall – I found footprints moving in both directions. It looks like there has been some recent activity."

The blood in Jazz's veins ran cold. If there were footprints leading to and from Forte Castle, it could only mean one thing – the assassins of Staccato knew about the tunnel, and knew that Andantino had a direct route to the castle dungeon whenever they wished. If their recent fears that someone was playing both sides were actually true, and Count Waltz had placed one of his operatives among them, it would be all too easy for them to infiltrate the hidden city of Andante at any time…

Jazz fixed Timpani with the full intensity of his golden eyes. "Return to Hanon Hills and seal off the tunnel entrance immediately."

Timpani rocked back a step. The secret passage, he knew, had been built on Jazz's personal command; construction of the tunnel had started not long after the first rebellion, led by Jazz's friend Tenor, had made their final stand at the summit of Mount Rock and been cast down by King Affrettando's army. It had taken several years to dig and even longer to reinforce; sealing off the tunnel meant that it would be unlikely for them to access it ever again. "With all due respect… are you certain…?"

"Someone is lurking about that shouldn't be," Jazz insisted darkly. "I am not willing to sacrifice any lives for a little convenience. Take Falsetto, and the twins – tell no one else where you are going, do you understand? Speak with no one on this matter."

Never one to argue Timpani snapped a military salute and strode out of the meeting chamber. Jazz watched from the window as Timpani half-jogged down the rocky avenue to the low stone abode where Bolero and Gigue made their home and admitted himself without knocking; Jazz attempted to take a deep breath to steady himself, but the air seemed to catch in his throat and made him sputter helplessly instead.

If the necessary precautions were not taken quickly, all of Andante would be in danger of obliteration.

* * *

><p>Fugue and Rondo were crouched in the underbrush just outside of the secret passageway on the Hanon Hills side when Timpani, Falsetto, Bolero, and Gigue snuck up the lane, and Rondo was certain she knew why they had come. "That idiot Sostenuto will not have foreseen this complication," she murmured in a sensual undertone to Fugue, who watched with steely eyes as the members of Andantino spread out as though searching for something. "It looks as though Jazz is sealing off the tunnel – and thus, Sostenuto's escape route. He will never escape the city with the dream drifter in tow; he will be caught, and then he will be killed."<p>

"It was inevitable that he should be killed soon anyway," Fugue hissed remorselessly. "If not by Jazz, then by Count Waltz himself. Sostenuto is a buffoon, and his usefulness has long since ended."

"While I agree with you," whispered Rondo, "I must remind you that if the dream drifter is not in Count Waltz's possession before Serenade and Crescendo's wedding ceremony, the count will have all our heads."

Fugue massaged his temples, thinking hard. Sostenuto had informed Toccata upon their meeting within the tunnel that he would be using the secret passageway to return to Forte Castle, since he was relatively certain that Andantino was unaware of its use in the recent weeks. Now that the tunnel was about to be sealed, there was little chance that Sostenuto would be able to make his escape at all – much less with a prisoner in tow. As Fugue watched, the fire-wielding twin melted the stone all around the edges of the boulder that served as the door to the passageway, and the ice-using twin froze the liquid rock matter into place to serve as a powerful sealant. Falsetto and Timpani threw their combined weight behind the boulder, not at all surprised when it did not budge under their strength. The passageway had been permanently sealed, it seemed.

An idea occurred to Fugue then. "Let us wait here for Sostenuto to bring the dream drifter. When he attempts to escape through the tunnel and finds it sealed, Andantino will be prepared to rain their vengeance down upon him. One of us can seize the dream drifter and take the long way back to Forte, over the hills and through Fort Fermata. The other can stave off any pursuit."

Rondo was nodding along slowly, a devious smirk curling up the corner of her perfect, luscious lips. "Give me one shot at Jazz. If I cannot bring him down, then I will at least strike him where it will do the most damage."

Fugue snickered, watching now as Andantino's members moved off into the shadows of the encroaching trees. Just a few hours from now, the trap would spring, and they would make Andantino suffer.

* * *

><p>It was about two o' clock in the morning when Sostenuto made his move.<p>

Sostenuto had come to be in Jazz's service on the recommendation of a man named Pesante, who had once served Prince Crescendo as one of Baroque Castle's royal palace guards. Pesante had spoken very highly of Sostenuto when Jazz had taken him on, so much so that Jazz had personally extended an offer for Sostenuto to join the underground resistance called Andantino. Sostenuto, of course, had accepted – after all, the life of a rebel was much more prosperous than the life of a gambler, who spent every coin he won fueling a growing alcohol addiction, and through his hard work and perseverance had earned Jazz's respect and admiration.

Sostenuto had come into the service of Count Waltz shortly after being promoted to captain of Andantino's third unit. There were things in life that Sostenuto enjoyed, Waltz knew, that Jazz wasn't willing to give him – namely money, but liquor and women too; fortunately for Waltz, the court at Forte Castle had an abundance of all of these things. Sostenuto had been accepting pay and performing favors in secret for Count Waltz for a little over a year; slipping information behind enemy lines while still keeping Jazz's trust took a great deal of time, and an even greater measure of caution.

But no more.

The first thing Sostenuto did after dressing himself and strapping on his bastard sword was to slit Pesante's throat. The act was easy, almost natural, and Sostenuto marveled at his inability to feel any sort of emotion in regard to the cold-blooded murder he had just committed. He wiped his sword clean on Pesante's own nightshirt and stalked out of the little cottage they shared, stealing silently through the streets of Andante.

The underground city was a feat of engineering, really: Jazz had staked out the unused tunnels after the first rebellion had failed, and with a small group of his closest friends had built the city stone for stone. The streets of the city were actually long, snaking tunnels, separated by chasms that descended into the impenetrable black depths – some of these chasms were bottomless, or so it was said. The homes were mostly stone but some of the newer developments were wood or even brick; Jazz himself lived in one of the brick abodes, with some of the finest fortifications available. Jazz's private residence was located on the upper pedestal, furthest away from the waterfall entrance on a slightly-raised stone shelf; it was fit snugly between the conference hall, and Falsetto's own home. Rumor had it that Jazz and Falsetto's parents had been among the very first to break away from Forte City and begin conspiring to bring it down, and that the two had been involved in one way or another in the rebellion since they were old enough to walk.

Vivace's house, Sostenuto knew, was located in the easternmost caverns – it was one of the residences closest to Lento Cemetery, which was also an underground structure marked by luminous underground rocks and centered around a subterranean spring whose waters possessed remarkable healing qualities. Sostenuto wasn't concerned – he intended to inflict wounds that proved impossible to heal by even extraordinary means.

At this hour of night there were very few guards on duty; there were two standing guard at the cemetery entrance, and this was near enough to Vivace's house that Sostenuto went out of his way to kill both of the guards before they could sense that his intentions were malicious. Two quick sword thrusts and they were both growing cold at his feet, their blood forming a pool that covered the tunnel floor and dripped down into the bottomless chasm below.

And then he was standing before Vivace's own residence. Every one of the modest little windows was black, which meant that both Vivace and the dream drifter she undoubtedly housed were both sound asleep.

Neither of them would ever know he was coming.

He would deliver the dream drifter to Count Waltz, and prove his worth.

And his sword would at last taste the blood of Vivace, who had dared to undermine him.

* * *

><p>Vivace turned onto her left side and issued an impatient sigh – it was well past midnight, she knew, and still she had yet to find even a minute of sleep. She had waited up for Timpani to return, concerned by his sudden departure, but when he crossed back into the boundaries of the city he had been surprisingly tight-lipped about where he had been and why.<p>

"Jazz gave me a job to do," he had told her, looking incredibly guilty all the while for not elaborating further. "He told me not to discuss it with anyone… I'm sorry."

It's going to be alright, she kept telling herself, staring blankly at the wall; her eyes had long since grown used to the darkness of her room. We'll be leaving soon for Baroque, and once we get there we'll be making a difference. We won't just be sitting around, waiting for something terrible to happen…

She knew she had to be ready. There was no room for mistakes. One wrong move, and Staccato would get their hands on Frederic.

Frederic.

Reflexively Vivace rolled over onto her right side, her eyes fixed keenly upon the closed door of her bedroom; after a moment or two they glossed over as she imagined Frederic in the guest room adjacent to her own, sound asleep in his bed, dreaming sweet dreams. He had made a promise that he wouldn't let any harm come to her, and while she believed that he would do everything in his power to honor that promise, she had secretly made a similar vow to keep Staccato from getting anywhere near him. Even now it pained her to be away from him; even though all that separated them was one closed door, she longer to be closer, to hold him in her arms while he slept and stroke his hair and make absolutely certain that he was safe.

Vivace had never been in a relationship before. Her parents had passed away soon after her birth, innocent bystanders that had become victims in one of King Affrettando's power struggles against King Maestoso, and she barely remembered them at all. Because she had not been raised by her own family and had never been a part of a loving, stable family, she had grown up shy and demure. She was quite passionate about the rebellion and gave every ounce of her strength in aiding Andantino's cause, but on most other affairs she remained quiet and steadfastly neutral. She rarely gave her opinion even when asked and appeared, at best, withdrawn. Only Timpani had ever seen glimpses of the woman that lived beneath all of the self-preserving walls, and only because he had taken her under her wing and given their friendship many patient years to grow.

So why was it now that she had lost all control over her own feelings? Why this man, Frederic Francois Chopin, a man whom she barely knew at all? What was it about him that made her feel so helpless, so desperate, so filled with desire?

Was this what it felt like to be in love with someone?

The realization struck Vivace so suddenly, and with such unbelievable force, that she almost didn't hear the tinkle of broken glass from the next room over.

Slowly and quietly she lifted her head an inch off her pillow, listening for sounds of distress in the room next door. Had she been imagining things? All was silent now, but the feeling of dread remained in the pit of her stomach. It was just as Jazz had insisted earlier in the day – something was very wrong. Vivace sat up and eased her legs out from beneath the bed sheets – she had lay down fully clothed, expecting that if she slept at all it would be light and in no way refreshing. All she had to do was don her sword belt and ease into her traveling boots, and creeping across the floor she pressed her ear to the door.

She couldn't be positive, standing as she was with a door between her and whatever was happening on the other side and with no visual to confirm it, but it sounded to Vivace like there was some sort of commotion on the other side. Still trying to be quiet, so as not to wake Frederic when it turned out that she was being overprotective, Vivace eased the door open ever-so-slowly –

- To find that Frederic was being dragged across the room, unconscious and bleeding from his head, by a wild-eyed Sostenuto.

Vivace cried out then, though whether she screamed words or unintelligible sounds she wasn't quite sure; all she knew was that her sword was in her hand and she was stalking forward with every intention of running her former captain through. Sostenuto stopped her in her tracks, though, when he leveled a large hunting dagger in line with Frederic's exposed throat.

"You stay right where you are," he growled, wheezing like a winded rhinoceros. Only then did Vivace realize that his hands were doused with blood – how many people had he killed in his hurry to get here? "If you make any moves I don't like, I'll slit his throat. What do you think would happen if he died in his dream? Would he wake up? Or would he sleep forever?"

Her arms numb with shock and terror, Vivace halted mid-stride and even let the Crystal Echoblade slip from her grasp and clatter to the floor. Sostenuto snickered, reversed the grip on his dagger, and threw the weapon end-over-end in her direction.

She was lucky – instead of slicing into the center of her forehead and killing her instantly, the knife struck Vivace handle-first, with enough force to render her unconscious. She dropped to the floor without a sound and did not move.

Sostenuto succeeded in dragging Frederic out the window.

* * *

><p>Despite the lateness of the hour, Jazz was still awake and stubbornly mulling over every grain of information he had gleaned over the last several days. He wondered if Crescendo's reply would come before he led Andantino out of the hideout and back onto the open road; crooking an unwilling smirk he wondered just how far the wise and peace-loving prince would go in his attempts to dissuade Jazz from making the journey. After all, Andantino's presence would undoubtedly spark some sort of reaction from Count Waltz, and more often than not his answers came in the response of Staccato taking the offensive. Jazz didn't want to be held responsible for any of his comrades getting hurt, naturally, but his instincts told him that Crescendo would be in danger. And as seasoned of a warrior as Jazz was, his instincts were almost never wrong.<p>

The piece of the puzzle that was still missing was just who was responsible for passing information off to Count Waltz. It angered Jazz to no end that one of his own would betray him, but revealing the location to the secret passage that had taken him so much time and effort to build… Jazz cracked his knuckles as he paced to and fro before the window of his quiet little home. When he found out who had betrayed his trust, he would personally see to it that the instigator was brought down.

On his fifth pass by the window, Jazz happened to glance out and spot something peculiar. As he watched, a large dark figure stepped out of one of the ground floor windows of Vivace's house; it appeared that the large figure was dragging a smaller figure of humanoid shape. Jazz crouched down quickly so as not to be seen and peered over the windowsill to keep track of the man's movements; as he watched, the man slunk beneath one of the still-burning sconces lighting the subterranean avenues, the firelight casting his features into clearer focus.

Jazz's eyes narrowed with utter loathing. The large figure was easily distinguishable even from a distance – it was Sostenuto, and he was dragging an unconscious Frederic in his wake by a handful of the great pianist's cobalt hair.

Moving quickly but quietly, Jazz crossed the room on all fours so as not to be glimpsed through the window and retrieved his massive greatsword from where it rested in a corner of his bedroom. This he strapped in its familiar place, running diagonally along his back, and crept downstairs to the ground level. Once there he turned away from the door leading out onto the avenue and moved for the window facing east, which he propped open and slunk out of immediately.

Since they had been small children, Jazz and Falsetto had been creeping out of one another's windows in the dead of night while their parents slept to embark on children's adventures together. These missions ranged from exploring Andante in its entirety to navigating the often-confusing Lento Cemetery to warding off monsters that crept too near to the hidden city's entrance. Now Jazz crept out and snuck through the shadows between their two homes, until he reached the lowest window at the backside of Falsetto's house. He never had to fear that it would be latched closed; the window hadn't been locked in years. He eased it open and slipped within, not at all surprised to find a fire crackling in the hearth and a mug of some steaming hot liquid left upon its saucer on an end table near Falsetto's favorite high backed chair.

Falsetto rounded the corner then, and stopped short at the sight of him. "Jazz! Still awake at this hour?" And then, seeing the grave seriousness in his eyes, she added, "Is everything alright?"

"The traitor among us is Sostenuto, the leader of the third unit."

"What?" Falsetto's startling green eyes widened in shock. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because he is currently outside, attempting to bring Frederic into Count Waltz's custody."

Falsetto dropped into a catlike crouch and approached the window with Jazz on her heels; she seized the corner of the curtain and tugged it aside just enough so that she could peer outside with one eye. Sostenuto had slung Frederic over one burly shoulder and was lugging him around like a sack of potatoes; he was now glancing over his shoulder, presumably to ensure he wasn't being followed, and he was only fifty paces from the tunnel exit that led straight up to the surface level.

"We must be quick," hissed Falsetto, and crossing swiftly to the end table she retrieved her hellcat gauntlets and tugged them on in earnest. "He cannot be allowed to pass Frederic off into Waltz's hands. If the prophecy is true, and the gateways to the other world do indeed possess such phenomenal amounts of energy… If Waltz were to find some way to harness such power…"

Jazz nodded curtly once to cut off her train of thought and stood up straight; there was a light in his golden eyes that Falsetto recognized, one that signified that Jazz was about to spring into action. "I am more than a match for Sostenuto; he is impatient and only subpar in his skill with a blade. I will go after him – you must discover what has happened to Vivace. She would not have allowed herself to be separated from Frederic willingly."

Falsetto nodded and dashed to the other side of the room, where the window facing the alley between their houses was still propped open; she slipped outside with barely a sound and blended stealthily in with the shadows. Jazz made for the front door and flung it open, sprinting out onto the main avenue, pausing just long enough to give the warning bell in the central plaza one sharp, clear ring.

By the time he looked up, Sostenuto had entered the tunnel and vanished up to the surface.

* * *

><p>Falsetto heard the pealing of the bell behind her, but she had already reached Vivace's residence by the time Jazz rang it and willed herself not to turn back. One of the windows on the ground level was broken – the window leading to the guest bedroom adjacent to Vivace's own sleeping quarters – and being especially careful not to cut herself on the broken glass Falsetto vaulted the ruined windowsill and admitted herself. Once inside it became clear to Falsetto – Sostenuto had overturned one of the oil lamps that lit the interior of the house, and the flames had caught on the rug at the foot of the guest bed and had spread all throughout the guest room. The smoke was still thin but building in density with every passing moment; Falsetto squinted her eyes to protect them and leapt through the flames separating her from the master bedroom, throwing her arms up over her head for added protection.<p>

Vivace was stirring weakly; her forehead was bruised and bloodied, and she seemed to have inhaled several great breaths of smoke in her semi-consciousness. Through streaming eyes she looked blearily up at Falsetto, who was already tearing a strip from the bed sheets using the cruel, razor-sharp claws protruding from her gauntlets.

"Wrap this around your nose and mouth!" she called over the sound of the flames, which were now completely blocking their escape via the window Falsetto had entered through. Vivace complied, looking less than coherent, and wrapping one securing arm around the frail woman's shoulders Falsetto led them further into the house. Luckily enough the primary entrance was largely unblocked by what was swiftly becoming an inferno; Falsetto kicked the door down and ushered Vivace outside.

Bolero, Gigue, and Timpani were all awaiting her, staring agape at the burning house behind them. "What is happening?" roared Timpani, enraged at the sight of Vivace barely clinging to consciousness and her home for the last several years burning down behind her. "We came the moment we heard the bell – "

Falsetto ushered Vivace into Timpani's arms. "I do not have time to explain. Take care of her!" And without so much as awaiting a reply she tore off toward the tunnel through which Sostenuto, followed by Jazz, had exited. No sooner had she taken five strides had Timpani pushed Vivace into Bolero's and Gigue's arms, and the bewildered twins eased her to the ground.

"Don't let anything happen to her, you hear me?" Timpani cried. "And get her away from that house! Don't let anybody else leave the city after me! Get Mazurka, and Arabesque, and Claves! Keep everybody else safe!"

And Timpani took off after Falsetto as behind him, Vivace drifted back into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Jazz caught up with Sostenuto just outside of the secret passageway that, until just hours ago, had connected Andante with the Forte Castle dungeon; the only reason he caught up with Sostenuto at all was because he was studying the massive boulder blocking the tunnel, trying to move it despite the fact that it was firmly in place over the entrance. He had deposited Frederic's unconscious body several feet away, and for a fleeting moment Jazz considered sneaking up, recovering Frederic, and fleeing before Sostenuto became wise to his presence, but his changed his mind quickly. Jazz had been raised to be loyal and trustworthy to those that placed their faith in him, and he had always expected the same in return – he was not prepared to allow Sostenuto to escape without answering for the discord he had caused.<p>

The leader of Andantino drew his greatsword and brought it to bear before him. "Turn and face me, Sostenuto! You have no chance of escaping me!"

Sostenuto whirled around with a start, throwing his hands up in defense when he recognized who had come for him; his face fell dangerously pale the moment he set eyes upon Jazz, and a fine sheen of sweat beaded upon his broad brow. "J-Jazz! What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Jazz roared, advancing another pace in his fury. "I am here to make you answer for your crimes! Did you think you would get away with all that you've done? Passing information off to Count Waltz? Conspiring to bring Andantino down? Defacing the city? Attempted murder?" Jazz finished by swinging his sword down to point at the unconscious Frederic Chopin. "Kidnap?"

Amazingly, the burly Sostenuto veritably cowered beneath the weight of Jazz's displeasure; he didn't even attempt to draw a weapon with which to defend himself. "You do not understand!"

"Then by all means, enlighten me!" bellowed Jazz, his eyes flashing with rage.

"Count Waltz… he is not to be crossed!" Sostenuto cried, wringing his hands with anxiety and terror. "I have heard awful stories… The things he does to those who oppose him, or fail to carry out his will! He got to me early on… He told me that if I didn't keep him informed on the plans and movements of your rebels he would have me drawn and quartered! He said he would leave me at the mercy of his right hand man, Fugue! I couldn't bear the thought… It was horrible… Please, please have mercy on me!"

The moment Sostenuto laid one hand upon the hilt of his broadsword Jazz lunged forward and slashed his greatsword down; the blade severed his right hand at the wrist and Sostenuto collapsed to the ground at once, bellowing like a wounded rhinoceros and writhing with agony at Jazz's feet. For his part, Jazz could honestly say that he felt no remorse for the man. "Mercy? Such as the mercy you showed Vivace when you set her house on fire with her inside?"

"I'm sorry!" Sostenuto howled, blood pooling around his limp and lifeless arm as he thrashed weakly. "Please… I'll tell you everything I know! Everything!"

Though Jazz had leveled his sword in line with Sostenuto's flabby throat and was mentally preparing himself to take the man's life, he did hesitate at those words. Perhaps there was more yet to learn from Sostenuto, Jazz considered, before he claimed the man's life and made him pay for his treason? The sharpest point of the sword nicked the underside of Sostenuto's chin, drawing a single droplet of blood, forcing Sostenuto to raise his head and look Jazz in the eye. It was impossible not to read the wrath in the depths of Jazz's golden eyes. "What do you know that could possibly make you anything more than worthless to me?"

Sostenuto blinked blearily up at Jazz, and it was clear by the bewildered look in his eyes that he was racking his thoughts for any morsel of information that might seem even remotely useful to the leader of Andantino. Finally he blurted, "The Count plans to assassinate Prince Crescendo at his wedding to Princess Serenade! It will happen sometime during the ceremony… He has contracted Staccato to do it!"

Jazz laughed, though the sound was completely devoid of all mirth; he leaned down and seized Sostenuto by the collar, dragging the other man upward until their faces were just inches apart. "You will have to do better than that if you intend to keep your pathetic life," hissed Jazz, "for you have told me nothing I didn't already know."

"It isn't just me!" Sostenuto wheezed pathetically, holding his mangled arm close to his chest in a pitiful attempt to staunch the flow of his lifeblood. "Did you know that Count Waltz placed two informers in your midst? Even if you kill me, he will still be privy to every word that you say!"

Jazz hesitated, struck dumb by Sostenuto's claim. Now that it was obvious that Sostenuto was a traitor for Count Waltz, Jazz couldn't believe that he hadn't realized the man's loyalties did not lie with him – if there really was a second traitor in their midst, who could it possibly be? There was no one else within Andantino's ranks with Sostenuto's obvious tells – arrogance and gluttony foremost among them – who else could be passing information to Count Waltz beyond Jazz's knowledge? Though taken aback by the claim at first Jazz recovered quickly, pressing the point of his blade even harder into the fleshy part of Sostenuto's throat; Sostenuto whimpered like an abused animal but otherwise didn't protest. "You lie to save your own life."

"No!" cried Sostenuto, desperate now. "I swear to you! It's – "

But Jazz would not discover who the other informer was – at least, not at that precise moment; just before Sostenuto confessed the identity of the other turncoat Jazz sensed a malicious presence at his back and dove to the side, tucking into a roll to cushion the fall and coming up precisely on one knee. Looking back he caught a fleeting glimpse of the assassin Rondo as she lunged ahead, one of her dual short swords leading the way forward, and in the absence of Jazz's back she simply dove upon Sostenuto and cut out the unfortunate man's throat. Rondo was much faster than Jazz, and he knew that unless he released his sword he would have little chance of evading her a second time, so when she sprang back up he feared the worst –

Frederic Chopin sat up, his eyes focused despite his delirium, pointing the tip of his great baton at Rondo's back as he cried, "Legion Fulminante!"

Jazz watched in awe as a stroke of silver lightning split the ground at Rondo's feet, not quite striking the assassin but throwing her off balance all the same; the bolt left a deep pockmark several feet wide where it had struck the ground, and there was nothing left in its wake except a cruel black mark where grass had grown just seconds before. While Rondo reeled in and out of consciousness, struggling to regain her feet but stumbling deliriously to one side, Jazz hurried to help Frederic to his feet. "You must return to Andante! It isn't safe here for you, I'm afraid – if Rondo has come, who knows how many of Count Waltz's faithful we can expect to see here?"

"I cannot leave you!" Frederic protested, and by then it was too late.

A single dark figure leapt down from the crest of the butte overlooking the sealed passageway, and Fugue descended into their midst; he landed a few feet behind an unsuspecting Frederic, bringing the pommel of his katana smashing down hard on the back of the great pianist's head. Frederic went down hard, his eyes reeling as he fought to stay aware; Jazz parried the second blow, a vertical downward stroke that may have otherwise cleft Frederic's head from his shoulders. By that point Rondo had regained her feet, taking her twin swords into her hands and standing shoulder to shoulder with Fugue, and Jazz found himself facing Count Waltz's two strongest supporters all by himself.

"You didn't seriously think that we would allow that fool Sostenuto to share with you all of Count Waltz's secrets?" snickered Fugue, standing over Frederic with the point of his katana pressing cruelly against the pianist's temple.

Jazz's mind reeled with the options, and none of them placed him or Frederic in a very favorable position. He could fight Fugue and Rondo both and hope to gain enough of an upper hand to rescue Frederic, but there was always the chance that one of them would strike a fatal blow against Frederic and Jazz was not prepared to take responsibility for that. If Frederic was put to death on his own account, Vivace would never forgive him… The other option, of course, was to let the two assassins have their way with him, and pray that when their bloodlust was sated they would spare Frederic.

Though the best he could hope for in that scenario was Frederic's abduction, and his own death.

"What say you?" purred Rondo, her magenta eyes shining with the prospect of putting an end to the leader of Andantino. "Will you stand down? Or will you force us to claim the dream drifters' life?"

Jazz gritted his teeth and threw down his sword, his eyes upon Frederic as he did so. The pianist gazed up at him with bleary eyes, as though wordlessly begging him to reconsider, but Jazz knew that if he changed his mind, Frederic would inevitably die. Rondo and Fugue laughed victoriously, bringing their weapons to bear –

Falsetto hurtled at Rondo from the shadows of the eastern face of the butte, her hellcat gauntlets intercepting the blow that may have torn Jazz's face apart, as at the same moment Timpani streaked into the fray from the opposite direction, his shoulder charge knocking the leader of Andantino to the ground, away from harm.

Jazz could only watch helplessly as a single thrust of Fugue's deadly katana pierced through Timpani's strong chest, the razor-edged point of the blade slipping cleanly through the other man's ribs and slicing through his back. Fugue twisted the blade – Timpani grunted in pain – and then ripped it free of Timpani's chest.

Timpani swooned for the ground, silent and unmoving, just feet away from where Jazz lay.

"That's quite enough," drawled Fugue from behind Jazz. "It's high time that we completed our mandate, Rondo, and returned to Forte Castle as promised."

Falsetto's hands dropped suddenly to her sides, her face horrified; Jazz glanced over his shoulder to find Fugue standing over Frederic Chopin, one hand clutching a handful of the pianist's hair and the other holding his katana in line with Frederic's exposed throat. Neither Falsetto or Jazz dared to move, and Fugue snickered again as though he had just won a war.

"Well?" asked Fugue, mocking them now. "Do you not agree that we should take our captive and depart, Rondo?"

Rondo made a point of sheathing both of her short swords upon her shapely hips, a simpering smile upon her full lips. "A wonderful idea, as always."

She retreated to Fugue's side as the lead assassin jerked Frederic up to his feet; Jazz's hand immediately went for his sword and Falsetto growled low in the back of her throat, and Fugue instantly jabbed the blade nearer to its mark. Frederic did his best to jerk his head back but couldn't quite escape.

"By all means," hissed Fugue, "come closer, if you want him to die."

Frederic's eyes met Jazz's; the latter was looking enraged and helpless, the need for a solution keen within his eyes. Frederic spoke as best he could. "My friends… Do not concern yourselves with me. There is nothing they can say or do that will make me give them any information, for I have none. And I would never consider betraying you – not after all you have done in my defense."

"What will it be?" purred Rondo, the same smirk still on her lips, and though it sickened Jazz he made the decision that would cost them the least.

"We will retreat for now," Jazz told them, pointedly laying his sword aside. "But I tell you this – Andantino will come for Frederic Francois Chopin with the wrath and retribution of a league of angels. And rest assured that when we come for him, any who dare to stand in our path will be put down without mercy."

"We will see," laughed Rondo, and she bound Frederic's arms behind him; Jazz and Falsetto watched, downtrodden, as the two assassins led Frederic down the lane and out of sight. Jazz turned immediately to Falsetto, sheathing his sword back in place.

"Vivace?"

"The house was on fire," Falsetto confessed, and all color left Jazz's face until she added, "but I managed to get her out before it burned down. I left her with Bolero and Gigue… I did not realize anyone had left the city after me."

They regarded Timpani together with agonized faces; their comrade lay on the ground where he had fallen, his body twisted unnaturally and his wide eyes unseeing. Falsetto knelt down beside him and closed his eyes, and two of her own tears fell upon Timpani's face. Jazz offered her a hand up, saying, "We will honor Timpani's sacrifice. I will bear him back to Andante myself."

"And Frederic?"

Jazz ran a hand down his face. "At this point our primary concern is to offer our protection to Prince Crescendo during his wedding ceremony… Unless we consider splitting our forces, we will have to turn our attentions away from Frederic for now."

"What?" Falsetto's mouth dropped open, aghast. "Are you saying…"

"Frederic gave us his word that he would stand against Count Waltz for as long as he had strength," Jazz reminded somberly. "For now, we must hold him to that promise."


	7. Diamonds For Tears

Chapter Seven: Diamonds for Tears

"_Is it a lost cause? Can we overlook this taint?_

_Are these the dead laws, like a doubt eating the saint?_

_And though I fear these shackles, like my darkness closing in_

_I will hold out my hands, I will hold out my hands…"_

Prince Crescendo read and re-read the slip of parchment in his hands, committing each word to memory, and when he was certain that he could recall even the most insignificant word at will he tore it into several very small pieces before discarding it. There was a quill tucked behind his ear and a blank sheet of parchment spread out on the handsome mahogany table before him, but he put both of the writing utensils away after a moment's consideration. By now he was certain that Jazz was already on the road that would lead him to Baroque Castle, so there was little point that any reply he wrote would reach the rebel leader in time.

He stood at the window for an hour or more, until the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the small entourage cresting the final hill to the castle gates – the small group of attendants and guards from Forte Castle, who had brought with them Princess Serenade. A small smile warmed Crescendo's face as the carriage they guarded opened and the noble lady climbed out – tall and graceful, with beauty unmatched by any other woman Crescendo had ever seen, he found that he was actually looking forward to their upcoming marriage.

Had circumstances been different, he may have even been excited. To think – an arranged marriage that actually included some form of love and devotion? The concept was almost completely foreign to Crescendo, whose own father had married a woman whom he had scarcely known. Now he couldn't help but wonder if his offer of peace and goodwill would be his undoing.

It wasn't that Crescendo hadn't considered that his decision to marry Princess Serenade and bridge the long-standing feud between the provinces of Baroque and Forte could be potentially hazardous for him – it was just that hearing it from Jazz made the situation all the more likely. As long as Crescendo had known Jazz, the rebel leader's intuition had always been sharp – and Crescendo had to admit, he couldn't recall a single instance in which it had been downright incorrect. If Jazz was begging him to have caution, then he, Crescendo, would do well to survey all things with a great deal of care.

Crescendo glanced back out the window, running one white-gloved hand through his fine blonde hair; as he watched, the delegation that had made the journey with Princess Serenade filed through the gate that barred Baroque Castle from the rest of the city. There was nothing else for it. In a matter of minutes, Crescendo would be face to face with his new fiancée – and in just a few short days, they would be husband and wife.

A shudder coursed down Crescendo's spine then, and he found himself suddenly grateful that Jazz was on his way.

* * *

><p>Vivace gazed blankly down the dusty road that led northwest from her current location, envisioning the intimidating structure that was Forte Castle darkening the horizon. Despite the fact that a two day long journey stretched ahead of her, she thought she could almost see the forbidding palace if she squinted hard enough. Behind her, the rest of the elite unit of Andantino were already angling themselves away from her, starting down the other fork in the road that led to the northeast, and to Baroque City. Only Jazz stood beside her, studying her face for any sign of emotion, but in this she knew that she couldn't betray what she truly felt or risk losing her only opportunity to get away from them.<p>

The last thirty-six hours had been nothing less than chaotic, and had passed with agonizing slowness. Little had been salvaged from the house fire that had burned through Vivace's cozy little residence – all she had really retained was the Crystal Echoblade, which was impervious to almost every outside stimuli and had remained steadfastly unscathed despite the fierceness of the blaze. All else had been lost to her, though the things that she mourned losing were not material things.

A small memorial had been hastily set up the very next day, in honor of Timpani and his heroic sacrifice; Jazz had officiated the memorial himself, and told the tale of how brave Timpani had leapt in front of Fugue's blade in order to save him. Vivace had sat through the recounting of the tale silently, with Bolero and Gigue each holding one of her hands, never crying and showing no sign that the news had impacted her at all. In reality, she felt just like her burned down house looked – a charred, hollow husk of its former self, and indisputably dead inside. She simply didn't have the capacity to cry.

They had then buried Timpani in Lento Cemetery where, Vivace was told, he would be in great company – a bold hero surrounded by other valiant heroes. This gave her little comfort, but she was glad for him all the same.

It wasn't until Jazz called the members of Andantino's elite unit together to discuss their next course of action that Vivace began to feel something at last – it was not despair, as she had assumed it would be, but rage. Though he did his best to sugarcoat his decision, in the end it was clear where Jazz's true interest – and, indeed, his loyalty – really lay: with Prince Crescendo, in Baroque. In his own words Jazz told her, "No one regrets the outcome of these tragedies more than I, but you must understand: I am charged with the safety of every man, woman, and child under the banner of Andantino, and I must serve the best interests of all of them, and not just one man."

This Vivace translated to mean, "I'm sorry, but the life of Frederic Chopin is no longer my concern."

Perhaps she had overreacted when she had said what she said after that, but since then she had not wavered in her decision in the slightest: "And I serve the best interests of all those under the banner of Andantino who have pledged their love and support to the freedom of the empire. That includes every innocent person in this province, and the next – not just those within the boundaries of your city."

Jazz had been very taken aback by this. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I can no longer accompany you to Baroque Castle. I am needed elsewhere – namely, Forte Castle." In reply to all of their shocked and devastated faces, she had decided to elaborate. "I made Frederic the same promise he made me – that I would not allow any harm to come to him. I will honor that vow. I will do everything within my power to rescue him."

Of course, they had all done their best to dissuade her. Falsetto had come later that evening to talk her out of it, but Vivace's mind was made up and when she set her mind to something there was nothing anyone could say or do to alter her course; Jazz had spoken with her no less than three times, at first beseeching and then angry and finally desperate for her safety. Still, Vivace was not prepared to relent. All she had to do was think of Frederic's kind eyes, and imagine the agony he would suffer at Count Waltz's hands, and these thoughts solidified her choice.

Now she stood upon the threshold of her own personal journey, with only Jazz beside her to offer her a few last words of solace. "Are you certain this is what you want to do now?"

A slight breeze ruffled Vivace's hair, sending a few golden strands into her eyes. She brushed them back, looking resolute. "Beyond any doubt. Were our roles reversed, I know that Frederic would do the same for me."

Jazz cast a sidelong glance her way, trying not to be callus when he reminded, "You barely know one another, Vivace."

"Do you think that matters? You and Falsetto have known one another all your lives, but did it take you a lifetime to realize that she would give her life for you, and that you would do the same for her?" Vivace turned the full weight of her pale green eyes upon him, and her stare was all-knowing and ancient in its wisdom. "No one knows how much time they have to be with the ones who are the most important to them. I know in my heart that Frederic is one of those people. I will not let him come to harm. I will save him."

"I meant no offense." Jazz placed a hand upon her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, almost alarmed by how frail she seemed. Had she lost weight in such a short period of time? Would she be alright on her own? He felt compelled to say, "Let me go with you. It is the least I can do."

Vivace forced a little smile for his benefit. "You're very kind, but no – Prince Crescendo needs you now most of all, and it would break your heart to leave him. Go to Baroque. Frederic and I will join you as soon as we are able."

Jazz nodded solemnly, knowing there was little point in trying to sway her course one last time; she had already proven her resilience on the matter many times over. "I beg you to be safe, and to take the greatest of care on your journey. Know that our thoughts and our hearts go with you."

Vivace nodded, and hitched her knapsack a little higher upon her shoulder before starting off to the northwest. Jazz watched her go, his heart heavy in his chest, until Falsetto clasped his arm at the elbow and tugged him away.

* * *

><p>Frederic spent two solid days wracking his brain and steeling himself for the moment when he would at last be brought before Count Waltz. He spent a great deal of his time watching Fugue and Rondo interact, always silent in his musings, doing his best to discern the real relationship between the two, but in the end he deciphered few real clues there. Fugue was clearly the one in charge, and he handled all situations with an emotional detachment that, Frederic learned, was characteristic to his general demeanor. Rondo was a little more fascinating to observe: she was possessed of a temper that made her prone to outburst of anger at barely a moment's notice, and she seemed barely to tolerate Fugue's superiority over her. They functioned well enough together, Frederic supposed, but he didn't dare attempt to drive a wedge between the two of them. Above all else they were unfalteringly loyal to Count Waltz, and Frederic knew that there was nothing that he could say to sway their loyalties.<p>

Forte City was a large and busy metropolis that seemed prosperous enough at first glance, but perceptive Frederic noticed right away the real face of the city: it was split into two factions – the fortunate and the less than so. Forte Castle had been erected with a spirit of undeniable grandeur, and those who were wealthy and lucky enough to reside within it were treated to every comfort within its walls. These people, Frederic knew, would never want for anything material and appeared to have all things handed to them on a silver platter, and generally on a whim. The second faction was comprised of those living outside of the castle walls, in the city below the palace – these people were in no way as fortunate, and seemed to live in poverty. Houses in the lower districts were run down and dingy, and some of the populace were clothed in little more than dirty rags. It was easy to see, in Frederic's opinion, that those with Count Waltz's favor were given everything they could possibly desire… and those who were considered beneath the Count's notice were given barely enough to survive.

The halls of Forte Castle were quiet and uninviting. Frederic had a feeling that this would be reminiscent to the overall timbre of his stay.

Count Waltz was waiting for his two assassins in the throne room, draped lazily upon his throne with one leg slung over the armrest and his chin propped up on one fist. Frederic was not at all impressed with the ruler of Forte Castle – at first glance the Count seemed arrogant, childish, and vain, with a smile of utmost superiority that never quite disappeared from his face and eyes a handsome shade of violet that always seemed a bit on the cruel side. The throne in which he sat seemed far too large for him, and he didn't appear very acquainted with the bejeweled rapier he wore upon one hip. Frederic thought that perhaps the province of Forte had made a poor choice, entrusting their kingdom to the leadership of one spoiled child.

The Count surveyed Frederic over his clasped hands, his black glass gauntlets shining ominously in the light from the chandelier overhead. After a time he waved a negligent hand at his two most trusted assassins and said, "You may leave us. We will speak later." When the great double doors had banged shut behind Fugue and Rondo, Count Waltz said, "So you are the dream drifter?"

Frederic remembered quite well what Vivace had told him – that Count Waltz had been scouring every corner of their world for the so-called "dream drifters", the people that could visit other worlds while they dreamt. He supposed he really did qualify as one of the gateways to the other world now. "I believe so."

Count Waltz bared his teeth in a rather malevolent grin; Frederic thought he rather resembled a shark. "You don't look like anything particularly special."

Frederic did his best to hide a twitch of his right hand, hoping that Waltz didn't ever become wise to the fact that the conductor's baton in its sling upon the pianist's hip was far more than it appeared. Even shackled as he was, he was almost certain that he could retrieve the baton with only a little difficulty if he needed to. "I am but a humble musician – that much is true."

"I doubt that is true at all," Count Waltz sneered, and then he changed tact at the speed of light. "What was your name again?"

Already Frederic disliked his captor. "Frederic Francois Chopin, at your service."

"Yes, yes, Chopin…" Waltz repeated Frederic's name with little real interest. "You were in the company of Andantino, were you not? How did you find them?"

Frederic squared his shoulders, half in support of the rebellion and half in defiance of the Count of Forte Castle. "I found them to be honest, hard-working, dependable, valorous human beings. I consider myself a greater man for knowing them."

Count Waltz sighed as though bored. "Did you? How odd… I myself find them to be petty, squabbling, loathsome creatures. They are quite a nuisance, really…"

Frederic did his best to sound cordial, but couldn't quite keep from sounding rude. "Forgive me for saying so, but I think perhaps you are a bad judge of character."

Waltz threw his head back and laughed long and loud, though the sound was devoid of mirth and his shark like grin never quite reached his eyes. When he had settled down he said, "One of us is that, at any rate."

"May I request that we get to the crux of the matter?" asked Frederic with a sigh, doing his very best to look and sound brave. "I have no desire to dwell on what is coming, and you seem like a busy man, so allow me not to waste much more of your time. Whatever it is you want from me, let it become known – though I warn you, I know nothing of the gateways to the other world, and could no more grant you what you wish even if I were familiar with them."

Count Waltz eyed Frederic over his black glass gauntlets again, this time deathly serious. The silence that filled the throne room felt almost tangible, and seemed to press in heavily upon Frederic's ears. At length the count rose from his throne and stalked down the velvet staircase, advancing until he was only a few inches away. Frederic took a little pride in the fact that he was a bit taller than the arrogant monarch. "Tell me… Why do you believe you have been brought here, Mr. Chopin?"

Reflexively, Frederic tested the strength of his bonds; it was obvious that Rondo had more than moderate skill in this, for the ropes held fast to his wrists and left him very little room to maneuver. He wondered fleetingly if he had been left with just enough room to go for his baton – it was possible that his captors were determined to charge him with any offense they could, and drawing a weapon against the Count of Forte Castle undoubtedly fell into the category of treason. He decided to comply for the time being. "I know why I am here. I am told that you have some morbid fascination with the gateways to the other world, and you are currently experimenting with ways to harvest the unfathomable amounts of energy these individuals possess." A smile spread across Waltz's face then, but Frederic continued by saying, "I feel I should tell you now – it doesn't matter what you do to me. This body is merely a vessel for my subconscious wanderings; you cannot truly hurt me, as everything around us is a part of my dream. I have nothing to tell you, and no amount of torture will change that. And more than that, I would never betray the men and women who came to my aid, and offered me their kindness." Frederic lifted his head up high, finishing, "Do your worst, Count."

Frederic didn't feel nervous at all about the encounter… until Waltz smiled in the face of his determination and bravado. The count tapped his fingers idly upon his chin, considering how best to respond, before finally saying, "Oh dear… I think you have been misinformed, Mr. Chopin. You see, I have absolutely no intention of harvesting energy from you. I never did."

The blood drained from Frederic's face, and a knot of cold dread twisted in the pit of his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I put that story out into the world as a ruse." Count Waltz's violet eyes were veritably sparkling with victory now. "Andantino hangs on every word I say, after all… They take all of my ideas so seriously! So I thought that, this time, I would really give them something to talk about. You see, you are not the first dream drifter I have ever met – I knew another, long ago, who stumbled into court here at the castle while my dear uncle still claimed the crown. My uncle discovered several years ago that, while the gateways to the other world do indeed emit a great deal of energy, there was no efficient way to collect and use it for our benefit. And so he had the dream drifter killed – she served no purpose to us." Bile welled in the back of Frederic's throat as Count Waltz continued, "So you see, I have known for quite some time that your kind, while undeniably fascinating, holds little value where my aims are concerned. But Andantino seemed so determined to keep you from me, so…"

"I do not understand," confessed Frederic in a quiet voice.

"Of course you don't," sighed Waltz, hardly surprised. "Allow me to explain: the whole purpose of bringing you into my custody was a clever way to gain leverage over Andantino. Despite the best efforts of my bumbling underlings, the rebels continue to elude me… So I thought that they might walk right up to my doorstep, given the proper incentive. And now – " Count Waltz held out a hand in a grand gesture, " – Here you are."

Frederic felt his knees grow weak as realization at last dawned on him. "You mean to use me as bait."

Count Waltz winked. "Precisely, Mr. Chopin. You see? You are a much more astute fellow than you give yourself credit for."

Frederic did his best to regroup, but inwardly his mind was reeling with panic. "I have already told you, I will not betray them!"

The sound of Count Waltz chuckling softly beneath his breath did nothing to soothe Frederic's nerves; coming forward again the young monarch slung an arm around the pianist's shoulders and steered him back toward the double doors, rapping his knuckles upon the door once so that the guards on the other side would open it for him. Wordlessly he led Frederic down the hallway, ignoring the countless servants and simpering well-wishers as he passed them by, turning down an adjoining hallway occasionally until he reached his destination – a single high door at the end of a corridor that was heavily guarded and scarcely lit. Outside this door they were met by the assassin Toccata, who bowed low in greeting.

"Count Waltz," he murmured, straightening up and eyeing Frederic in a most unpleasant way. "Are you here to monitor the progress? I am told that the experiments are going quite well, considering the short period of time that has passed."

"Open the door," Waltz ordered. "I would like to show our guest what we are truly working on… For some reason he is under the misapprehension that all of our plans revolved around him."

"How… self-centered of him," Toccata observed with a snicker, and he bowed them inside without another word.

Frederic found himself in a small chamber that was brilliantly lit with torches set all around, so bright that he had to squint just to see properly. There was little within the room, just a large desk with a high-backed wooden chair; in the chair sat a middle-aged man with a bald patch and a very nervous gaze, and upon the table had been placed a nondescript ceramic jar. Toccata closed the door behind him and took up a silent vigil with one hand upon the knob, and the two guards that had followed them from the throne room immediately advanced upon the terrified-looking man.

The moment it became obvious that the guards had their sights set upon him, the man cried out and began thrashing in his chair; glancing down Frederic noted that the man's wrists had been shackled to the arms of the chair, and his ankles to the front two wooden legs, to prevent him from getting up. One of the guards seized the man none-too-gently by what little hair remained upon his balding pate, and the other guard took a pinch of some manner of powder from the ceramic jar and powdered the man's tongue with it while he screamed. Frederic winced when the whimpers became blood-curdling cries of horror, but couldn't help but glance up in curiosity when the cries ceased.

"Look at me," bade Count Waltz in a voice like soft velvet, and to Frederic's astonishment, the balding man who had been screaming for his life mere moments before snapped his gaze upon the Count of Forte Castle as though he had been born to serve the man. Count Waltz nodded at the guards, and without further ado they released the man from his bonds.

Frederic could only gasp with shock when Waltz whispered, "Now kill them both."

It was inconceivable that the balding man would have any chance at all against the two palace guards – he was in his declining years and clearly not in the best physical shape, whereas both guards had trained rigorously so as to be able to serve the count to the best of their abilities – but the moment Count Waltz gave his order the balding man was a blur of motion. He leapt up from his chair, his eyes wild like an animal's, and rushed upon the nearest guard with his fist leading; there followed the unmistakable sound of crunching as his fist broke the first guard's nose, and his next strike crushed the unfortunate man's windpipe. The second guard was just drawing his sword when the balding man fell upon him – the sword was struck from his hand with a single flick of the balding man's wrist, and his second strike was somehow powerful enough to shatter the man's skull.

The carnage lasted for barely ten seconds, but it was the most awful thing Frederic had ever seen in all his life; the moment it was over the balding man turned to Count Waltz and knelt down to the ground before him, as docile as a housecat. Waltz gestured to Toccata, who crossed the small square chamber and retrieved the ceramic jar for him.

"Mineral powder," Waltz explained, pinching a bit of steel-colored dust between his thumb and forefinger and studying it with something like reverence. "We have been developing it here for the last several weeks; it bears a very close resemblance to floral powder, which is an organic healing agent extracted from various species of flowers from a small village called Tenuto. As it turns out, mineral powder can be mined easily enough from Mount Rock – the mineral is found in surplus there, even! The primary difference between floral powder and mineral powder is that mineral powder is more than just a healing substance; studies have shown that the mineral powder also stimulates the portion of the brain that triggers aggression, sending that person into a state of anger that borders on temporary insanity. Our most recent studies have shown that the victims can be bonded to a single outside stimuli, such as the voice of a single person." Waltz paused to snicker to himself, pleased at the discovery, it seemed. "If such a person were to harness that power over an entire legion of people – an army, perhaps – he could easily become the most feared leader in the world, wouldn't you agree?"

"Don't even speak of it," gasped Frederic. "This is monstrous! Are you really considering – "

"The complete and utter domination of the entire population," Waltz finished victoriously. "Why yes, Mr. Chopin – now that you mention it, that is precisely what I am considering. Starting at Prince Crescendo's marriage to my dear cousin. The time has come for a demonstration of the new mineral powder's effectiveness on a much larger scale – in a week's time, when Crescendo and Serenade prepare to take their vows, the unsuspecting prince will meet his demise at the hands of his very own adoring public. And when Andantino learns that they must either stand down or live with the death of Frederic Chopin on their own hands, there will be no one left to stop me!"

* * *

><p>Vivace traveled tirelessly for two days' time, resting only when it was absolutely necessary and pushing herself to the very limits of her endurance. Her pace was swift and relentless; every time she felt too exhausted to go another mile, she simply thought of Frederic and pushed herself even harder. A journey that would have taken the average fit, athletic human being two days took Vivace only about forty hours.<p>

But she no longer considered herself to be just an average human being. The emotions she felt now for Frederic, clouding her judgment and dominating her every thought, made her feel somehow immortal.

She wandered the streets of Forte City for a quarter of an hour, no particular destination in mind, thinking hard and fast through options that were not numerous. But the time she had made her way up the grand central avenue, past the great fountain in the precise middle of the pavilion, and into the palace's front courtyard, the sun hung quite low in the sky – and still she hadn't formed so much as a plan for infiltrating the castle. She slumped against the outer wall of the guard tower, ignoring the curious gazes from passerby, feeling overwhelmed and despaired.

Perhaps she should have listened to Jazz after all; then, at least, she would be actively involved in the Andantino agenda. But then, what did they know? The elite unit was rushing off to Baroque Castle to involve themselves in matters that, until proven otherwise, did not concern them in any way. It was true that Jazz and Crescendo were close friends, certainly, but how much did they really know about the marriage between Crescendo and Serenade? The union of nobles was of little consequence to the rebellion – after all, they had no real proof that Crescendo's life would be in danger at all during the wedding ceremony. Their movements were based on speculation and nothing more.

Vivace straightened up, squaring her shoulders and shaking off what remained of her melancholy. She had an agenda. It was a certain thing that Frederic Chopin was now a prisoner of Count Waltz. It was also a sure thing that, unless someone intervened, Frederic would be tortured and then put to death for his refusal to provide the count with the information he required. Because Vivace was absolutely certain that, though Frederic knew the location of the hidden city of Andante and was privy to a great deal of information concerning Andantino's movements, he would never surrender that information to anyone.

It was then, just as Vivace was beginning to despair, that she noticed something quite unusual; there was a great deal of foot traffic considering that Forte City was nearing its curfew, and everyone that passed her by was dressed in their finest formal attire. Not only that, but everyone seemed to be flocking toward Forte Castle – and, uncharacteristically, the palace doors were thrown wide to admit any and all comers.

The golden haired rebel put out a hand and snagged an elderly looking gentleman clad in a handsome navy topcoat and matching trousers that were a hair too short at the ankle. "I beg your pardon… is there some occasion at the palace tonight?"

The elderly gentleman ogled at her for a moment, then took in her traveling garb and seemed to draw his own conclusion. "You must not make it into Forte City much… Don't you know? Tonight is a grand occasion indeed. We are honoring Princess Sarabande who, on this day, is turning sixteen. 'Tis a spectacular reason to rejoice, to be sure!"

Vivace hastily released the man and even offered him a polite little bow, along with an apology. "It certainly is. Please forgive me for delaying you – in fact, please allow me to escort you into the grand ballroom by way of apology. Say that you'll accept, good sir."

He touched two fingers to his moth-eaten top hat in what he intended to be a gesture of acceptance, but Vivace was nearly moved to tears. The gesture reminded her of Frederic, who practiced the same genteel manner in a quiet, polite way. "It would be my pleasure! Every man should have a beautiful woman at his side, don't you agree?"

"Quite," said Vivace quickly, and linking her arm with his she ushered them discreetly into the crowd of people now flocking toward Forte Castle.

Vivace had passed through Forte City only twice in her lifetime, and had never once set foot in the forbidding structure that was Forte Castle. The inside halls were elegant but macabre, with floors of black marble and dark gothic overtones dominating the interior design and overall architecture. There were five halls leading off the massive foyer, as well as two sweeping staircases, one on either side of the foyer, that led up to the second level rooms that were all closed. A balcony overlooked the foyer and a third staircase led up to an even higher floor, but Vivace doubted that Frederic was being confined in any of the upstairs lodgings. Andantino had built the underground passage near the waterfall cave entrance as a contingency plan – should they ever have the need to infiltrate the Forte Castle dungeon, they would be able to do so with ease and secrecy, for the tunnel was underground and so was the dungeon. Vivace looked down as she and her elderly escort shuffled forward, envisioning the subterranean dungeon sprawling endlessly beneath her feet.

The natural flow of the crowd carried them through the foyer and to the north, through the widest and most lavishly decorated corridor that led straight into the grand ballroom. Once there Vivace immediately released the elderly gentleman's arm and squeezed herself in between a tight-knit group of corseted and petticoated ladies to admit herself.

The ballroom was decorated in gold and larger than the city of Andante in its entirety. Elaborately decorated tables were spaced evenly throughout the southernmost third of the chamber, set with shining dining ware and flickering candles and large crystal centerpieces overflowing with pansies and freesias. The middle third of the ballroom was reserved for dancing; a string quartet had squeezed itself in between one of the dining tables and a spindly table bearing half-full champagne glasses, and elegantly dressed couples currently whirled to a moderately-paced waltz. The upper third was dominated mostly by a long table set horizontally; most of the seats at the table stood vacant, but sitting in the center in a place of honor was a young woman with fine silver hair twisted into an stylish updo, gorgeous violet eyes, and a couture gown sparkling with precious gems. This, Vivace presumed, was the sixteen-year-old Princess Sarabande, the younger sister to Prince Crescendo's soon-to-be wife, Princess Serenade.

Vivace turned her back on the high table, hardly interested in the young noble. A quick but shrewd glance through the droves of people told her one very important thing – Count Waltz was not among those currently attending the birthday celebration, and there wasn't a single assassin present either. This knowledge did not bode well for Vivace – where was the ruler of Forte Castle, and where were his underlings? Were they even now torturing poor Frederic, relentlessly grilling him for any morsel of information that might slip off his tongue?

Her heart hammered away against her ribs, and blood roared in her ears. She needed to find a way into the lower levels, she knew. She didn't know what she would do when she got there or even where the dungeons were located, but the need for action was so acute now it was painful. She needed to find Frederic. She needed to confirm with her own two eyes that he was unharmed, or at least alive.

She didn't realize that she was standing on the fringe of the dance floor, the only body not moving in a sea of waltzing couples moving in perfect harmony, until a hand clapped down upon her shoulder and spun her none-too-gently around. Vivace frowned, and then winced. She was standing face to face with Toccata.

"Good evening," sneered Toccata, bowing low in a kind of polite yet sinister greeting. Vivace noticed that his eyes never left hers, and he never exposed his neck to her. When he straightened, his eyes fell upon the Crystal Echoblade that was still sheathed steadfastly upon her hip. "The guards stationed at the main gate were given specific instructions to turn away anyone who refused to relinquish their weapons. How did you get in with that?"

"If that is the case, then I'm afraid your security is lax," Vivace informed him. "I came in through the main gate and was never questioned."

Toccata scowled. Vivace had the uncomfortable sense that she had just signed some poor doorman's death warrant. "How many of Andantino's members did you smuggle in with you?"

Vivace answered truthfully – one thoughtless lie could cost Frederic his life if the assassins of Staccato came to feel threatened as a result. "I came alone."

"You lie."

"There is far too much at stake for me to even dare."

Toccata studied Vivace's face silently for several moments, trying to uncover the level of truth to her claims; finally he snickered beneath his breath and seized her by the wrist. The force of his grip made her knees buckle with agony. "Then you are a fool. What did you hope to accomplish, coming here alone? Did you think we would not notice? Count Waltz sees all."

Vivace grimaced but did not back down. "I am here for Frederic Chopin."

Toccata jerked on her wrist and led her through the thickening crowds as the string quartet struck up a more lively tune, making a beeline for the doors. By the time they reached the doors and made their way back into the foyer, Vivace had lost circulation to her left hand; Toccata turned left and led them to the end of the hallway, then knocked twice upon a simple wooden door.

The door swung inward and there stood Rondo. Her eyes lit up in malevolent victory at the sight of Vivace. "Toccata! You are most welcome. Count Waltz will be pleased to see you and your… guest."

"I am most certain he will be," Toccata agreed, and he shoved Vivace down the concrete staircase between himself and Rondo. The latter led the way downstairs with her twin blades in her hands and wearing an expression that suggested she would decapitate Vivace if the rebel so much as breathed too heavily.

At the bottom of the staircase they found Count Waltz waiting for them, in a small underground meeting room that was sparsely furnished and quite chilly. There was one simple wooden door several feet behind him, where two guards were standing resolutely by. Vivace did her best not to be dismayed by the fact that she was outnumbered five to one.

"Count Waltz," said Toccata in a flat and monotonous voice. "This is Vivace – one of the members of Andantino's so-called elite unit. She has requested an audience with Frederic Chopin."

"Actually," Vivace interrupted boldly, holding her chin up high, "I am here to release him from your custody."

"So that he may be returned to the custody of Andantino?" Waltz suggested, sniggering at his own joke.

"No," Vivace snapped. "We do not imprison people. We do not treat others like slaves, as you and yours seem so fond of doing."

Abruptly, Waltz's face turned the color of sour milk. He gestured at Toccata to release Vivace as he said, "I will make you a deal… you may taken Mr. Chopin with you, and the two of you will be free to go, if you can fight your way through this room."

The knowledge that she was hopelessly outnumbered slipped from Vivace's recollection at those words, and mindlessly she took her sword in hand and advanced on Count Waltz. The young monarch hissed at her like a snake that was coiled to strike defensively, but he relaxed a moment later when both Rondo and Toccata closed in around her.

Out flashed the Crystal Echoblade, slashing one of the sleeves open on Rondo's overlay and glancing off her black glass armor hard enough to leave a bruise beneath it. Rondo snarled ferociously and parried Vivace's enchanted longsword away, diving forward with both of her matching short swords, but Vivace twisted out of range of both and struck at her hard. Rondo met the sword stroke with both of her blades, but there was enough force behind the blow to send stinging reverberations up every one of the female assassin's fingers. Toccata lashed out with the thinblade, slapping the flat of the blade across the backs of Vivace's thighs, and the rebel lurched forward with pain.

Rondo was quick to take advantage of the opening, lunging forward with her dominant sword leading. Vivace dropped into a crouch and raised her sword up above her head to protect herself, just in time to foil Rondo's stroke and hold the short sword at bay, but Toccata advanced again, batting the longsword out of Vivace's hand and setting the thinblade to her throat.

"Enough," crowed Count Waltz with vicious amusement. "I captured the dream drifter in the hopes that he would lure someone from Andantino to me, and he has done just that. I want her alive."

Rondo backhanded Vivace with one of her gauntlets and sent the golden haired rebel reeling backward into Toccata's arms. Count Waltz seized her throat with one of his hands and brought himself down to her level, speaking each word slowly and clearly so that she wouldn't miss a single one even on the brink of consciousness.

"You will talk," he told her venomously, "or Frederic Chopin will die."

The hilt of Toccata's thinblade cracked down on the back of her head, and Vivace plummeted into darkness.

* * *

><p>Princess Sarabande had spent about an hour seated at the high table by herself, graciously greeting guests of Forte Castle as they shuffled up to her throne to pay their respects and to wish her a very merry sixteenth birthday. She kept her eyes upon the main doors, half expecting to see the soldiers of Andantino burst through and invade the grand ballroom at any moment, but the first hour of the festivities passed and no such thing occurred. Count Waltz and his assassins were nowhere to be found, which made Sarabande wonder just what had happened down below – after all, one moment Toccata had been moving amongst the commoners, and the next, he had all but vanished into thin air.<p>

The young princess was just preparing to rise from her throne and attempt to sneak out of the grand ballroom when Fugue slid into the seat next to her, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her fingertips. Sarabande had to work hard to relax back into her seat, and to battle back the urge to gag.

"I do hope you are enjoying your birthday celebration," he murmured against the flesh of the back of her hand, and Sarabande craftily slid her hand out of his on the pretense of straightening her high crown of silver and sapphire gems. Fugue's cunning smile faltered only slightly before he continued. "I do apologize for my absence."

"Then you acknowledge that you have been absent from the ballroom, and you are prepared to tell me where you have been?" Sarabande supposed smoothly, and Fugue's smile disappeared altogether.

"I have been conducting the business of Count Waltz, your esteemed cousin," he said evasively, and while Sarabande didn't doubt this claim she was absolutely certain that there was far more to the story. "Surely you can understand that my duties to him sometimes take precedence over all other matters?"

Sarabande crossed her arms and pretended to pout. She was prepared to admit that often she exploited Fugue's feelings for her in order to become privy to information that she would otherwise be omitted from knowing. "But it's my birthday…"

Fugue heaved a little sigh and leaned closer, for by now several of the other assassins of Staccato were making their way back to the high table and their conversation was no longer as private as it had been. He crooked a finger, beckoning her closer, and Sarabande reluctantly tilted her head until she felt her abhorred fiance's lips brushing her earlobe. "And what a birthday present I have for you, dear princess. It pleases me to tell you that Count Waltz was right about that dream drifter, Frederic Francois Chopin – he obviously fell in with the rebellion, and Andantino dispatched one of their own to secure his rescue. Fear not, though – Toccata apprehended her not long ago, and she has been incapacitated and imprisoned. When she awakes, Toccata will see to it that she tells us everything that she knows about Andantino."

Sarabande's first reaction to Fugue's information was to be alarmed – after all, as a secret supporter of Andantino herself, she could quite easily regard all that she had heard as terrible news. She hadn't seen Frederic Chopin with her own eyes, but she had been preparing for her grand birthday celebration when Fugue and Rondo had returned to the castle with him in their possession and her ladies in waiting had been eager to share the news. As far as she knew Count Waltz's designs for the unfortunate dream drifter had involved collecting the insurmountable energy that the gateways to the other world were rumored to possess, and now she cursed herself for believing the count's own words as true. Here now was his true aspiration – he had never wanted anything to do with poor Frederic Chopin in the first place. The entire story had been a ruse, little more than a clever lie intended to lure in the members of Andantino. Worse still, if Fugue's words were to be believed, the ploy had succeeded.

The princess's second reaction was to be excited. In all of the time that she had resided within the castle since control of Forte City had passed from her father, King Affrettando, to her despicable cousin, she had longed to meet one of the members of Andantino. She had always admired their efforts and secretly desired their victory over Count Waltz and his bloodthirsty assassins. It had long been rumored that Jazz, Andantino's courageous and infamous leader, was a close friend of Prince Crescendo who, openly, was a strong supporter of the rebellion also; Sarabande wished she could meet him, just once, and perhaps shake the hand of the man who was brave enough to stand up against oppression and tyranny. Obviously it wasn't Jazz who was being held captive in Forte Castle dungeon, for Fugue had clearly alluded to the fact that their captive was a woman, but one of the rebels was definitely here!

Finally, Sarabande settled into a smoldering kind of resolve. If one of the rebels was here, and Waltz was preparing to torture the poor girl until she relinquished everything she knew, there was really only one thing to be done. Abruptly she turned back to Fugue, who looked positively puzzled by her lengthy silence, and even went so far as to seize his hands in both of her own and lavish them with kisses. "This is indeed the greatest birthday gift you could have given me! Words cannot express how pleased I am with this news!"

Fugue grinned, completely taken in by the princess's gratitude, and planted a kiss upon Sarabande's cheek. Again, the young princess succeeded in resisting the urge to be sick. "Princess – you are most welcome. It is my pleasure to continue to serve you."

Then he pulled one of his hands free and took up his goblet, holding it aloft and regarding his fellow assassins when he cried, "A toast! Down with Andantino!"

Ostinato, Gavotte, Bellicoso, Antiphon, and Feroce all thrust their glasses high and cried out in sadistic jubilation; Count Waltz, who was just returning to the high table, made a point of bowing low to the lady of the hour, who forced herself to rise and curtsy for his benefit.

No one noticed that Princess Sarabande never raised her goblet for the toast.

* * *

><p>Frederic paced restlessly in his cell, his eyes never leaving Vivace's face. He had been present when Toccata had dragged Vivace down the stone dungeon stairs and deposited her none-too-gently into the prison cell next to his own, and though he had called her name and pleaded with her to answer Vivace had never awoken. Her lip was bloody and her delicate cheek bore the shadow of a pale purple bruise; Toccata had ignored all of Frederic's questions, hadn't even spared the pianist a second glance before locking the door to Vivace's cell and stalking back up the stairs to the ground floor.<p>

For a short while Frederic had despaired, his head in his hands. Because of him, the woman that he loved beyond thought or reason was about to suffer awful torments. Eventually, he knew, she would even lose her life; her loyalty to Jazz was strong, and wasn't likely to bend under even Count Waltz's cruelties. When her usefulness ran out, Vivace would die – then again, Frederic supposed he would, too.

Presently a slight whimper caught Frederic's attention, and his head snapped up. Vivace was stirring upon the stone dungeon floor, shaking her head slowly to clear her vision, and when her eyes found his she bolted to her feet and dashed to the bars that separated them. Her hands clutched at his face as though she were holding on for dear life; Frederic's fingers immediately tangled themselves into Vivace's golden hair, inhaling the scent of delicate flower blossoms deeply into his lungs.

"Frederic," she breathed, as though to speak his name caused her both relief and pain. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he assured her, and he traced his thumb over her bruised cheekbone with the utmost care, his eyes hardening as he considered her plump and bloodied lip. "Who did this to you?"

"Rondo," Vivace hissed, and hatred flickered through her eyes until Frederic bent and pressed his lips gingerly to her forehead. When their eyes next met, hers were brimming with tears. "I have to get you out of here. Has Count Waltz already questioned you? Did he manage to extract any of the energy he needed? Oh God, forgive me for not arriving sooner – "

"Silence, Vivace," murmured Frederic. "It is for your well being that we should be concerned now. The count has already confessed that his plans do not include me; my capture was merely a device. His real aim was to bring a member of Andantino into custody for questioning. You are the one in danger now."

Vivace shook her head stubbornly. "There is nothing to fear. There is nothing Waltz can say or do that would ever make me tell him all that I know. It doesn't matter."

"Vivace – "

"No," she overrode him. "I will not become the next Sostenuto. I will not betray Jazz."

"Then perhaps I should save the Count's precious time," snapped a voice from the stairway, "and put you to death without any further delay."

Frederic and Vivace started and sprang apart, heads swiveling in the direction of the stone staircase; Toccata was just completing his descent, his boots utterly silent, his dark eyes filled with a kind of malicious pleasure. It took Vivace only a moment to recover, throwing her arms out wide as she cried, "If in death I may better serve Andantino, then by all means, take my life, Toccata! But you will learn nothing from me, and I will never comply with your demands!"

Toccata paused just outside of arm's reach, considering Vivace's words carefully. At last his eyes fell upon Frederic, and his hand settled upon the hilt of his sheathed thinblade. All color drained from Vivace's face when he said, "I think you are mistaken, Vivace. Obviously you have not taken everything into consideration. If you do not provide me with the information I require, then what will become of poor Mr. Chopin?"

Vivace lunged herself at the bars, shrieking animalistically, her outstretched hands claw-like when she swiped at him. "Your business is with me, Toccata! I demand that you release Frederic at once!"

"'Demand'?" repeated Toccata, and throwing his head back he laughed like a man possessed. "You are in no position to make requests of any sort, I think! What do you think will happen if your information does not satisfy me? Would you be the reason for Mr. Chopin's demise? Do the gateways to the other world wake when they are slaughtered while they dream?" As if to prove his point Toccata drew his blade from its sheath and slashed out through the bars; Frederic grunted and stumbled back, one hand clapped tightly around his upper arm, which bled freely now. Vivace cried out and strained against the bars, seeming crazed.

"How about a deal?" asked Toccata mildly, holding his sword so that the torchlight illuminated the crimson liquid staining the blade. "I give you my word that I will release Mr. Chopin – I will allow him to go free, if in return you give me the precise location of the city of Andante and agree to lead Staccato there. Well? Will you comply?"

Frederic glanced to his left and saw, with a jolt of shock, that Vivace was trembling with rage and the weight of her indecision. Her teeth bit down upon her already bloodied bottom lip until she cut through the skin and blood flowed anew.

She was considering Toccata's proposal.

"I should remind you that Count Waltz values his time, and does not have much to spare you as you consider," said Toccata icily, and even as he said this he was thumbing through the prison cell keys so that he could admit himself into Frederic's cell. "I really must have your answer."

Vivace's head snapped up. The resolution burning in her eyes was almost terrifying; Frederic's hand strayed to the handle of his baton, preparing to put it to good use, but Vivace floored them both then by saying, "I want your word that he will not be harmed!"

"Vivace!" growled Frederic, even as Toccata inserted the prison key and admitted himself. "No!"

But Toccata would get no closer to Frederic. The assassin stood there for a horrible moment that seemed to stretch for hours, his thinblade held aloft as though he meant to lop Frederic's head from his shoulders, and then the confident set of his shoulders slumped and he grunted as though in pain. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath – and a gout of blood exploded from his lips, flecking the darkened stone underfoot with droplets of crimson; he lurched forward as though he would fall, but something seemed to be holding him in place. The sword slipped from his fingertips and his eyes reeled, though it was clear he could see nothing anymore, and at last he swooned forward and collapsed at Frederic's feet.

Behind him stood the diminutive Princess Sarabande, wearing a gorgeous dress of pale blue silk that sparkled with crystals and amethysts and a high crown of silver and dark blue gems; in her eyes was a look of purest hatred, and in her hand was a small, ornate dagger smeared with blood.

"What is the meaning of this?" gaped Frederic, his eyes wide as he knelt down to study the body of Toccata, but he needn't have bothered – Toccata was clearly dead. In the next cell, Vivace hastened to bow low and beckoned impatiently for Frederic to do the same, but Sarabande waved her hand negligently and bent to retrieve the ring of keys that had fallen from Toccata's lifeless hand.

"Now is hardly the time for formalities," she snapped, stepping over the pool of blood forming in Frederic's cell and jamming the first key into the heavy lock on the door to Vivace's cell. The key didn't turn; she pulled it out and fumbled with the next, and they could clearly see that her delicate fingers were trembling with terror.

"Princess Sarabande!" exclaimed Vivace, her pale green eyes wide and disbelieving. "What are you doing? Why – "

"Are you really a member of Andantino?" asked Sarabande, looking quite skeptical. "You ask quite a lot of questions for a fearless rebel." The fourth key she tried clicked in the lock, and the prison door swung open. Vivace stepped out, mouth slightly open as she gaped at the young princess; Sarabande stumbled back a step, her violet eyes fixed upon the deceased Toccata and her face growing quite pale. Frederic stepped around the growing pool of crimson and touched Vivace's shoulder, and she flew into his arms; Sarabande watched them appraisingly, seeming satisfied. "I could think of no way to release you that involved Toccata keeping his life – besides, I have never been fond of him, or any of the assassins of Staccato. They are a low, evil people – the perfect companions for my wicked cousin."

She turned fully to face them then, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of conspiracy. "I know of the secret passageway that Jazz commissioned to connect Forte Castle dungeon with the Hanon Hills, which is rumored to be very near to the hidden city of Andante. Can you not use that to escape?"

Vivace shook her head, looking grim. "Jazz ordered the passageway to be sealed. It was a preventative measure – meant to keep Sostenuto from delivering Frederic to his imprisonment. Obviously it only delayed the inevitable."

Sarabande's only clean hand slipped into the corset of her gown, extracting something small and laying it in Vivace's hand; the object was a miniature unicorn carved of ivory, its magnificent horn a masterfully crafted diamond. Vivace glanced back up, a hundred questions upon her lips, but Sarabande lifted her hand to stem the flow of inquiries. "No – there is no time. That will be your method of escape. Now listen very carefully." Sarabande knelt, wiping her little dagger clean on Toccata's tunic and rubbing the blood briskly off her slender hand. "You will follow me back into the foyer, where I will cause a distraction. In the confusion, you will exit the castle and summon the enchanted steed I have given you to bear you on your way; the creature is magical, and will run faster than any living animal can. Your destination must be Baroque, do you understand? My cousin has laid awful plans in place – plans that involve Prince Crescendo's murder during his wedding ceremony to my dear sister."

"Yes," Frederic agreed, nodding his head in earnest. "Count Waltz confessed as much. His plans are known to me."

"Then it falls to you now to stop them," Sarabande informed him grimly, "for I cannot. I am as much a prisoner here as you have been."

"Andantino is en route to Baroque Castle," Vivace told the young princess, hoping that the news would offer her some comfort. "Jazz is prepared to offer Prince Crescendo all of the support he is able."

"And for that I am glad," said Sarabande with a genuine smile, and she beckoned for them to follow her as she stole silently up the stairs. The upstairs chamber where Count Waltz had received Vivace was empty, and so Sarabande led them into the vacant hall and crept toward the foyer. The entrance hall was overflowing with guests – the great double doors stood open barely fifty feet away.

Turning back the princess clasped one of Vivace's hands with both of her own, regarding the golden-haired rebel with desperation. "I beseech you to make me this promise: when you see Jazz, tell him that he has long served as a beacon of hope for all those whom he so selflessly serves. Tell him also that I am honored to have performed this small service for him, and that I will continue to honor his struggles in any way that I can."

Vivace nodded and bowed low. "You have my word that it will be done, Princess."

"Good." Sarabande offered them one last wistful smile, and then took a step away from them. "Now – no more delays. On my signal, be gone."

Princess Sarabande swept out of the darkened side corridor and strode into the foyer, where she was immediately hailed respectfully by all of her adoring subjects. She made it about twenty feet, smiling brilliantly around at all of them, before laying a hand upon her brow as though dizzy, and then amidst the screams of the commoners she swooned for the ground in an uncanny impersonation of a faint.

Vivace seized Frederic by the wrist, clutching the ivory statuette close to her heart, and amidst the confusion and chaos they sprinted together into the foyer, out of the palace, and into the twilit streets of Forte City.


	8. War

Chapter Eight: War

"_With no one wearing their real face, it's a white-out of emotion_

_And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall_

_When the love in letters fade, it's like moving in slow motion_

_And we're already too late, if we arrive at all…"_

Count Waltz stopped dead just outside of the door in the middle of the hallway, scowling at the wood as though daring it to undermine him. In his hand he clutched a small crystal vial half-filled with some manner of a pale purple powder, and this he regarded with a kind of maniacal resolution. It was necessary, he thought. He wasn't about to try and talk himself out of this decision. What he did now, he did for Forte Castle – for the betterment of all those within his sovereign rule, he was certain.

Toccata's body had been found just ten minutes after Princess Sarabande had fainted in the foyer of the palace and Ostinato, who was particularly adept at identifying types of wounds, had easily discerned that the killing blow had been dealt by a small dagger, with a blade only six inches in length. This had baffled Count Waltz for a little while – he had initially assumed that Toccata's death had been brought about by another of the assassins of Staccato, whose power struggles were almost legendary within Forte City, but after a quick interrogation of each his underlings Waltz had discovered that this was not true. Not a single one of the assassins wielded a blade that was even remotely akin to the one that had brought about Toccata's untimely demise, and he had been forced to consider other culprits.

This mindset had led him to become suspicious of Princess Sarabande herself, who had had no real reason to leave the great ballroom at all and whose alibi for being found in the foyer was questionable at best. She had assured Count Waltz that she had been visiting with a few commoners who were near and dear to her heart and had chosen to walk them to the entrance hall on their way out, but Waltz didn't believe her for even a second.

Somehow he knew that she had killed Toccata herself, and was responsible for the escape of Frederic Francois Chopin and the Andantino rebel they had taken such great pains to capture.

Count Waltz wrenched the door open without announcing himself; Fugue was waiting on the other side, sitting at the desk in his own private quarters and facing the door, as still as a statue. He leapt to his feet when Waltz entered and managed a bow, but his eyes were empty and lifeless. "Count Waltz. Have you identified Toccata's killer?"

Waltz was seething and huffing like a winded rhinoceros. "You and I both know who killed Toccata, Fugue. It goes without saying. Your fiancée is responsible for this."

"I would never presume to disagree with you, Excellency," said Fugue smoothly. "But I must express how unlikely it is that the sixteen year old daughter of your uncle ended the life of a most respected assassin."

The count stalked forward, seizing Fugue by the collar of his tunic and slamming him back against the wall; the smaller effects covering the desk shuddered as a result of the impact. "Come now, Fugue – you are neither single-minded nor dense, so do not pretend to be in this instance. I know that you are enamored with the girl, but I will not let you turn a blind eye to such a serious indiscretion. She has challenged my authority and, if the correct steps are not taken, she may have jeopardized my plans for Crescendo's wedding ceremony! Are you prepared to help me rectify the situation, or aren't you?"

Fugue stared back into Waltz's eyes, and it seemed to the count that the light had gone out in his eyes. When next he spoke, it seemed to pain him greatly. "How can I assist you in this, Count Waltz?"

Waltz released his right hand operative and thrust the small crystal vial into his hand; Fugue looked back at him, not understanding. "See that this finds its way into the princess's drink."

Fugue's eyes widened, half in shock and half in horror. "With all due respect, you cannot possibly – "

"I can," Waltz overrode him, looking furious. "I will not tolerate her continued insolence. This is my court, Fugue, and I am the law here – or have you forgotten? I will let no one stand in my way… not even the treasured youngest daughter of my beloved late uncle. Now tell me – can I count on you?"

Fugue's mouth had gone dry, and his blood ran cold as he regarded the tiny vial with its lavender powder within. It did not take a genius to guess the nature of the contents Count Waltz had given him, and though Fugue was widely regarded as a cruel, heartless man, the fact remained that he cared a great deal for Princess Sarabande – though, of course, she had never returned his affections. At last he heaved a great sigh, his eyes ancient in their apparent sadness, and closed his fist around the vial of powder. "Of course, Count. I will carry out your wishes."

"Very good. I knew I could count on you, Fugue."

Count Waltz stormed out without another word, leaving Fugue to his agonizing task and his ultimate despair.

* * *

><p>The enchanted unicorn thundered across the desolate tundra landscape, its powerful hooves leaving great silver indentations in the earth, its glossy crystalline mane shimmering in the bleak sunlight that managed to filter through the clouds. Vivace clung to the wondrous creature's flanks with her strong thighs and held on to its glittering mane for all she was worth; seated behind her Frederic Chopin kept one hand upon his hat at all times, and the other he had looped around her waist. Princess Sarabande's magical steed had no saddle or bridle, but they had discovered quickly that there was no need for them; the unicorn statuette had transformed into this most spectacular mythical equine, whose every stride was as fluid as water and whose innate direction sense was superb. They needed to give it no commands – Vivace had asked it to make with all haste to Baroque Castle, and away they went. At first Vivace had despaired, for she knew that the journey from Forte to Baroque was usually a grueling three days' ride via horseback, but so swift was the unicorn's gait that she estimated only sixteen hours – perhaps just time enough for them to reach Baroque Castle for the wedding ceremony.<p>

"You said that Count Waltz divulged his plans to you?" Vivace called over the wind as it rushed past, and Frederic put his lips up to her ear.

"He confessed that bringing a member of Andantino into his custody was his real aim from the beginning," Frederic said loudly, "and that it was never his intention to harvest my energy at all. He even mentioned that this method had been tried before, during the reign of his predecessor, and that the experiments ended in failure."

"Did he mention what happened to the dream drifter that came before you?"

"She was destroyed," Frederic admitted, and Vivace felt a pang of remorse, mixed with anger at King Affrettando. She considered this for a moment before asking for more information.

"Did he tell you what he plans to do in Baroque?"

"Count Waltz has been mining something called mineral powder from a place called Mount Rock," Frederic told her, pleased that he could be of some use. "Once administered to the victim, the mineral powder has the ability to tap into the section of the brain that controls aggression… somehow Count Waltz can control a person under the influence of mineral powder, and force them to act violently on his behalf."

Vivace's mind reeled with the possibilities, asking, "Is he certain that the mineral powder works?"

"I was present when he tested it on one unfortunate soul," Frederic admitted, recalling the occasion with no small amount of horror. "He sacrificed two of his own guards to a man who was in the grips of the mineral powder, and the man made their deaths look almost laughably simple. I fear for Prince Crescendo if Waltz's plans are not stopped – he said that he means to distribute the mineral powder to the citizens of Baroque City, and command them to bring down their own ruler."

"This cannot be," murmured Vivace, terror apparent in her voice, but the words were soft and swept away upon the wind. They rode on in silence for several long minutes, both brooding on the events to come, before Frederic leaned his weight against Vivace's back and pressed his lips gingerly to her cheek.

"You came alone to rescue me," he observed, and he was truly touched by her concern. "I can never repay you for the kindness you have shown me."

"You have no reason to thank me," she called back to him. "I wasn't about to leave you alone, and I would never leave an innocent man in the hands of the assassins of Staccato. That, and… I knew you would have come for me, were our roles reversed."

It struck Frederic all at once at how precariously balanced their lives were now; only a week ago he had come to know this incredible woman with her undefeatable spirit and her indomitable will – would they live to see the dawn of another day? Were their lives about to be torn asunder?

He couldn't allow it. Not as it currently was. Too many things were as yet unsaid…

"Stop for a moment," Frederic bade her, in a tone that was almost pleading.

Vivace cocked her head in his direction. "What? Why? We are very short on time – "

"I know." He sighed, exasperated but unwilling to change his mind. "Please… only a moment."

Vivace heard the desperation in his voice and twisted around to look him in the eye; his eyes we overbright and molten with a swirl of emotions that were nearly overwhelming. She dug her heels into the flanks of the great unicorn they rode, and it stopped so smoothly that it felt as if they had never been in motion at all. Vivace swung one leg around so that she was sitting sidesaddle astride the magnificent beast, her face a mixture of puzzlement and alarm.

Abruptly, Frederic's emotions were far too much for him to handle – he seized Vivace's hands in both of his own and scooted closer to her, until they were almost nose to nose, and though his voice was low and somewhat husky he was certain that she would catch every word and never question his meaning.

"There is no doubt in my mind that I have misinterpreted my own feelings for you," he told her. "The passage of time holds no meaning for me – I feel as though I have known you all of my life, and that you have been present through all of my triumphs and struggles. I fear…" Frederic paused to swallow hard against the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, clinging to her hands for added support. "I fear that very soon we will be torn from one another by some outside influence. I cannot bear to let you out of my sight before I have told you the absolute truth… I love you, Vivace. I wish now that this world was as real for me as it is for you, so that I would never wake, or that I could sleep forever and never leave you."

At the declaration of love Vivace's eyes had begun to sparkle with tears; the moment the words had ceased spilling from Frederic's mouth he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her softly, tenderly, as though afraid that she would vanish and he would be left alone. As their lips moved together in perfect synchronization, the tears welling in Vivace's eyes spilled over.

When they had parted, Vivace caressed Frederic's face with great care. "I feel the same way. I love you too, Frederic Francois Chopin… so much that I would do anything in my power to keep you here, if that were in any way possible."

"Rest assured that when I wake, I will always be thinking of you," Frederic promised. "And that I will pursue sleep more fervently than ever before."

"And I will always be ready to receive you while you slumber," said Vivace solemnly.

They shared one last kiss, and then Vivace spurred the unicorn back into its swiftest pace.

* * *

><p>Rondo made it to Baroque City long before Andantino; she had parted ways with Fugue at the approximate halfway point on the way to Forte from Hanon Hills, and trusted Count Waltz's right hand operative to deliver the dream drifter Frederic Chopin to Forte Castle on his own. She had been given private instructions from the count to make her way to Baroque City with all haste and await further orders; she had done so without complaint, and was thus ready and waiting when the count's messenger bird, a particularly ferocious falcon, alighted upon the windowsill just outside her temporary residence there and rapped its great beak upon the glass panes.<p>

The female assassin let the bird in at once, holding out one arm for it to perch upon; it fluttered in quite gracefully despite its size and settled upon the proffered forearm, its claws latching onto the assassin's gauntlet. Laced to one of the bird's scaly legs was a small roll of parchment, and around its neck was a length of ribbon to which had been secured a tiny crystal vial. Rondo wisely read the note first.

The message was short and to the point.

_Toccata is dead. Frederic Chopin has escaped. The mission has been compromised. Proceed with the failsafe._

Rondo removed the ribbon with the attached vial from the falcon's neck and squinted at the contents. Inside was a pinch of steel-colored powder.

* * *

><p>Prince Crescendo watched Jazz pace the length of the room, his brow furrowed as he brooded and his hands clasped behind his back. The leader of Andantino had made it his first priority upon arriving in Baroque City to seek a private audience with the prince; the rest of the rebel entourage had been housed in lodgings elsewhere in the palace, and awaited their leader's return. Crescendo knew, of course, that Jazz had his best interests at heart, but at present he had to confess that he found Jazz's over protectiveness to be more than a little annoying.<p>

"With all due respect, my friend," Crescendo began, a hint of exasperation to his tone, "are all of these precautions really necessary?"

Jazz halted mid-stride and snapped his head up to regard the prince; his golden eyes were hard and unyielding. "Do you not see the great service we are providing you? I understand that you feel we are inconveniencing you – I also understand your desire to spend this day with your bride-to-be, and to enjoy this happy occasion for what it is – but make no mistake, Count Waltz is planning something sinister in nature that will place you at great personal risk. If you expect me to stand idly by – "

Crescendo managed to diffuse the mounting tension by stifling a little chuckle with the back of his hand, and when Jazz looked put out he hastened to say, "I have never expected you to merely stand by: that has never been in your nature." The prince rose from the high-backed chair he had been sitting in and crossed to where Jazz stood frozen, dropping one hand companionably down upon the rebel's shoulder. "When I accepted the mantle of prince, do you recall my words to you?"

Jazz nodded solemnly. "You said that you wanted to continue your father's work, and build a kingdom in which no one was forced to live in fear."

"Precisely, and to that vision I hold. If there was even the smallest chance that I might bridge the gap between Baroque and Forte by accepting Princess Serenade as my wife and queen, then you had to have known that I would try. It has always been my deepest wish that the misunderstandings between myself and Count Waltz be resolved by any peaceable method available to us." Crescendo's face fell a little then, and he heaved a pained sigh. "Though I must admit, I fear that if this gesture does nothing to assuage him I will be out of options that may be considered peaceable."

"With all due respect," said Jazz, turning fully to face the slightly taller prince, "I fear that Count Waltz is no longer interested in resolving these conflicts with treaties and compromises – I wonder if he was even interested in peaceable negotiations at all. It is my feeling that the count has a lust for violence, not unlike the love for war that his uncle had. Do you really believe that he is not preparing to use this occasion as an excuse to cause you some harm?"

"Do you have proof?" asked Crescendo pointedly, and this was the last straw for Jazz.

"Proof?" cried Jazz, shaking the prince's hand off his shoulder, his golden eyes on fire with sudden anger. "What proof do I need, other than the count's outstanding track record against him? You and he have opposed one another at every turn! He employs paid killers to do his bidding! He sends his faithful followers to burn the houses of innocent people, and to bring unfortunate bystanders into his custody so that he might advance his own personal agenda! I need only the proof that lies before my eyes, Prince! The proof stands before you… if you would only open your eyes long enough to glimpse it!"

"And why would he agree so readily to the union between Princess Serenade and I, if he were not turning over a new leaf?" Crescendo roared back.

Jazz clapped both his hands down upon Crescendo's shoulders, tugging him nearer until they were almost nose to nose when he growled, "So that he could prey upon your never-failing trust one last time, in the hopes that your trust in him would prove to be the death of you."

Crescendo's face fell at these words, and his standoffish posture immediately dissolved into one of submission; Jazz cuffed him on the back, his eyes filled with sympathy. "Please understand, Crescendo… You are one of my dearest friends, and the thought of any harm befalling you pains me greatly. Were it up to me, I would never leave your side. There is no better way, in my mind, of keeping you safe than seeing to your safety with my own two eyes. I wish only the best for you, my friend. Know that I would never name enemies where there were none, and I would certainly never attempt to ruin your wedding day for you. It is my greatest wish that you find nothing but joy on this day, and if my claims of an assassination attempt on your life do indeed prove to be false, I will rejoice in my wrongness."

The prince nodded, running a hand through his pale blonde hair, forcing a smile onto his face when he said, "You will stand up beside me?"

Jazz answered by asking, "You will name me, a lowly rebel, your best man?"

"I would have no one else," Crescendo assured, and embracing like brothers they moved their conversation on to better things.

* * *

><p>Princess Sarabande retired early in the afternoon, still exhausted from the previous nights' events and dreading the coming evening. For though she loved her older sister dearly and wanted nothing more than to see Serenade find happiness, she almost couldn't bear the thought of being left alone at court with Count Waltz as her lord and master. Alone in her private quarters she checked the time, surprised to find that the hour of Serenade's marriage to Crescendo was drawing quite near, and found herself thinking of Frederic and Vivace. Had she really done the right thing in killing Toccata? Who was she to decide who was worthy of life, and who deserved death? Had she really executed justice in murdering one of her cousin's wicked business associates, or had she simply ended the life of a loyal follower and allowed two rebels to walk free?<p>

She found that she didn't care at all.

Abruptly the young princess felt as though she had aged hundreds of years, and desired nothing more than to sleep. There was a glass of water at her bedside that she assumed one of her ladies in waiting had poured for her upon an afternoon inspection of her private quarters; she lifted the goblet to her lips and drained it, savoring the fluid as though it were the last thing she would ever drink.

Then Princess Sarabande lay down, closed her eyes, and drifted into a deeper slumber than she had ever known.

* * *

><p>When Prince Crescendo and Jazz vacated the prince's personal living quarters, it was only twenty minutes before the wedding ceremony was to begin; Rondo was ready and waiting on the wide windowsill just outside of the magnificent windows that afforded the prince a brilliant view of the palace gardens below. The moment the two men's voices had drifted away she stole into the palace through the open windows, momentarily stunned at how lax the security was in Baroque Castle.<p>

She supposed the easiest way to administer the mineral powder would be to slip it into a drink of some kind, and lo and behold the fools had left two goblets of ale sitting out. Fortunately it was easy to tell which drink belonged to whom: Crescendo's, she assumed, was in the golden goblet encrusted with sapphires the size of marbles, and Jazz had obviously opted for the plain goblet sitting beside it. She considered the hilarity that would ensue if she poured the contents of the vial into the prince's own glass, but then remembered the total chaos she had been sent to trigger and emptied the steel-colored powder into the plain-looking glass.

The moment the task was done Rondo stepped back, suddenly elated at what she had done. According to Fugue, the dream drifter Frederic Chopin and the member of Andantino had escaped prison and were probably even now on their way to Baroque Castle – with hopes to foil Count Waltz's plans for Crescendo, no doubt. But they were en route to stand against legions of civilians. That was no longer on the count's agenda.

It would be simply fascinating to see just how Andantino would react when their beloved leader took Crescendo's life!

* * *

><p>The union between Prince Crescendo and Princess Serenade was scheduled for eight o' clock in the evening, with a grand reception that would last into the night and invited the whole of Baroque City into the palace to join in the celebration. The ceremony was to be officiated on the wide balcony overlooking the palace gardens, and the gates had been thrown open wide to admit any and all who wished to serve as witnesses to the royal nuptials. The guards operated in their normal patterns and routines as though nothing were amiss.<p>

To Falsetto, who had been assigned to Princess Serenade as a personal bodyguard, it was as though Crescendo were simply inviting disaster itself to his wedding. She lingered in Prince Crescendo's estate room with Jazz while the prince changed into his wedding ceremony attire; Princess Serenade was in her wedding gown already, and being attended to for the moment by her ladies in waiting. "I know he believes that Count Waltz bears him no ill will, but he might have at least exercised a little caution for such a public occasion, don't you think?"

Jazz was jittery with nerves and was losing the composure to hide it; he was pacing around the room again, hands behind his back, brow furrowed so deeply that the expression might have been permanently chiseled into his handsome face. Falsetto leapt in front of him, forcing him to stop in his tracks, long enough to brush a few wayward strands of black hair out of his eyes and pin a lovely deep purple lily to his breast. Jazz heaved a sigh. "Of course I agree with you. I spoke with him on the matter myself. He insists that the ceremony be handled with class and elegance, and that to double the guard would only ignite the confusion and discomfort of the people. He would not be swayed. All we can do is protect him ourselves – if Count Waltz is as determined as he seems, then all the guards of Baroque Castle will not be enough to stop him."

A light sheen of sweat had beaded upon Jazz's brow; Falsetto dabbed at it gently with her white glove, saying, "You need to relax, Jazz. Prince Crescendo has the best protection anyone could offer him – he has the elite unit of Andantino. We will not allow any harm to come to him."

"Of course," murmured Jazz, looking vacant, and Falsetto cast her eyes around the room until they fell upon his goblet of half-drunk ale.

"Here," she told him, taking up the goblet and thrusting it into his open hand. "Drink the rest of this. It wouldn't do for you to be seen at the prince's side without a smile! You are the best man!"

"Are the others in place?" Jazz asked stubbornly, frowning at the ale as though he didn't really want any of it.

Falsetto rolled her eyes and nudged the goblet closer to him with a laugh. "Of course. I took care of all the defensive procedures myself. None from Staccato will get within a mile of the prince or his fiancée. Now drink! Remember that first and foremost this is a day to rejoice and be merry. You are not here simply to offer Prince Crescendo protection – you must be ready to give him your support, and your congratulations too."

Jazz finally cracked a slightly nervous smile. "You're right. Thank you, Falsetto."

The rebel leader was just downing the rest of the drink when Crescendo poked his head in the door, decked out in a magnificent snow-white suit and a flowing violet cape that fastened at his shoulders with large golden buttons. Upon his head was the royal crown of the kings of Baroque, a majestic golden circlet inlaid with priceless blue and purple gems. "Falsetto? The princess's ladies tell me that it is nearly time for us to make way. Are you ready to escort her?"

Falsetto dipped a bow. "It would be my pleasure, Prince Crescendo, and allow me to offer my congratulations to you once again on behalf of your wedding. It promises to be a grand occasion indeed!"

"Thank you," said Crescendo warmly, offering her a radiant smile, and Falsetto let herself out. Turning to Jazz he gestured to the door and added, "Are you ready, my friend?"

"I should be asking you that," said Jazz with a laugh and a wink, and crossing the room he and the prince exited also.

* * *

><p>The procession was nothing less than breathtaking. Prince Crescendo led the way with Jazz one respectable pace behind him, and the moment he appeared upon the great balcony overlooking the palace gardens the adoring people of Baroque City responded with uproarious cheers and applause. Next came Falsetto and three of the princess's ladies in waiting, and at last Princess Serenade of Forte herself in a gown of purest white set with hundreds of miniscule crystals that reflected rainbows in the sunlight. In her hands she held an overflowing bouquet of white roses, lilies, freesias, and hydrangeas, and a silver crown encrusted with glittering diamonds sat upon her blonde hair. Her last two ladies in waiting followed behind her, fanning out the magnificent train of her wedding gown as they came.<p>

Jazz glanced sidelong at Crescendo just in time to see the prince's face light up at the sight of his soon-to-be-bride, and the last traces of apprehension flew from him. Perhaps Crescendo and Falsetto were right. Perhaps Count Waltz bore the Prince of Baroque no ill will at all, and his fears had all been for nothing.

Serenade laid her hand in Crescendo's and the crowd below quieted down as the high priest of Aria Temple began to preside over the ceremony. They reached a moment of silence as Jazz extracted the princess's wedding band from his breast pocket to give to Crescendo – and then a voice screamed from the audience below.

"Kill him! Kill Prince Crescendo!"

Falsetto's head swiveled in the direction of the voice, just quick enough and perceptive enough to pick out Rondo's sickeningly lovely face among the crowd of hundreds; the assassin was grinning broadly, as though she had just won a war –

The ring slipped from Jazz's fingertips and landed upon the marble underfoot, bouncing as it struck the hard gray surface and rolling off the balcony to fall into the crowd below. Falsetto turned her head in his direction so quickly that she cricked her neck, and felt the blood drain from her face as she took in the sudden rage that flickered in Jazz's eyes.

Jazz laid a hand upon the hilt of his greatsword and tore it from its scabbard with a flourish, teeth gritted together as he growled like a feral animal, and without warning he swung; Falsetto dashed forward, seized Crescendo by the cape, and dragged him backward with all of her might, putting just enough distance between the prince and the arcing sword that the blade collided with the marble guardrail of the balcony instead. The stroke had enough force behind it to shatter the marble, sending chunks of it falling into the now shrieking crowd below.

"Jazz!" cried Falsetto, confused but still somehow furious. "Stop this! What are you doing?"

The rebel leader didn't answer, merely threw his weight behind the massive blade in an attempt to wrench it free from the ruined guardrail. It was then that Falsetto came to understand that Jazz was not in his right mind – somehow, as impossible as it seemed, Count Waltz was responsible for this.

Falsetto was about to step around Crescendo to engage her childhood friend in combat when the Prince of Baroque drew his royal rapier with a grand sweep of his arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Prince Crescendo! What – "

He turned to face her, seeming resolute. "Listen to me! For the love you bear me, take Princess Serenade and get her out of here! Protect her at all costs – see that no harm befalls her, on your life!" Seeing the hesitation in Falsetto's eyes he shouted, "That's an order!"

Falsetto turned on her heel and groped for Princess Serenade's wrist, shoving the ladies in waiting aside as she dashed for the hallway; with the princess in tow she sprinted the length of the hallway and out of sight.

On the balcony, Crescendo brandished his rapier as Jazz succeeded in freeing his greatsword from the ruined marble guardrail, snarling like some deranged creature, his eyes seeming inhuman.

"It seems you were right about Count Waltz after all," the prince lamented, and he prepared to stand against his dearest friend.

* * *

><p>The unicorn thundered right through the gates encompassing Baroque City and along the cobblestoned lane leading up to the palace; the gates here were thrown open wide too, so Vivace didn't hesitate to steer the mythical beast right into the front pavilion before she urged the beast to a halt. The unicorn stopped easily, pawing anxiously at the ground with one silver hoof, and that was when Vivace heard the cry from the crowd.<p>

"Kill him! Kill Prince Crescendo!"

From their vantage point it was easy to pick out the ill wisher from the crowd; the assassin Rondo was standing among the civilians, her head raised to regard the balcony overlooking the sweeping palace gardens and the most terrible smile upon her face. Vivace turned back to speak to Frederic, to find that the pianist's face had gone white with fear.

"Frederic!" she called worriedly, clutching one of his shoulders and giving him a little shake as if to jar him back to his senses. "What is it? What's the matter?"

Frederic's eyes refocused on her, but they held no less fear than before. "When I was hostage to Count Waltz and he displayed to me the potency and effectiveness of the mineral powder, he gave the man who had taken the dosage a single order – and the man followed it through until he gave the count the result he desired."

Vivace could almost feel her blood freezing within her veins. If what Frederic said was true, then it was highly likely that Rondo was acting as the mouthpiece for Count Waltz's will, triggering the mineral powder she had administered to some unsuspecting victim. "But who - ?"

Her eyes slipped back to the balcony then, in time to witness a horrifying sight – the moment Jazz hefted his greatsword and swung it down, with every intention of cleaving Prince Crescendo in two. It was by sheer happenstance and good fortune that Falsetto seemed to be in her element; she managed to tug the prince out of harm's way, in time for the sword to miss its mark and embed itself in the guardrail that lined the marble balcony. Vivace had thrown herself from the unicorn's back in an instant and drawn the Crystal Echoblade; all around them the crowd was in hysterics, screaming and running every which way in a desperate attempt to escape –

Vivace spotted Rondo wading through the crowd, and knew that if she didn't accost the assassin now it was likely she would escape back to Forte Castle and never be made to answer for her crimes. She cast one last glance up at the balcony – Falsetto was dragging Princess Serenade off the balcony and back into the palace – before turning back to address Frederic.

There was a strange expression on Frederic's face, almost as though he was on the verge of doing or saying something important; he glanced back at her desperately, almost apologetically, and the agony in his face stopped her in her tracks.

"Vivace," he started to say, but his voice was a feathery soft whisper that was nearly stolen away upon the wind, and then he vanished before her eyes. Vivace nearly swooned for the ground in a panic but realized at the last moment what had happened. Frederic Chopin had finally awoken from his dream.

Resisting the urge to break down in tears Vivace turned back to where she had last seen Rondo, to find that the assassin was nowhere to be seen.

Above, Jazz at last succeeded in yanking his greatsword free of the wreckage of the balcony guardrail, and was even now advancing upon Prince Crescendo.

There was nothing else for it. Vivace hitched the Crystal Echoblade up to balance upon her shoulder and sprinted up the castle steps and into the foyer.

Frederic Chopin sat bolt upright in his bed, casting his gaze all around; outside of the musty bed sheets that served as curtains to his apartment in Vienna the sun had at last broken through the clouds, and a golden shower of buttery sunshine was even now spilling through the shades.

It was morning in Austria. He was awake now, and back in the world he was so familiar with.

The sunshine pouring through his window no longer seemed inviting; just looking at it, knowing that it symbolized the end of his slumber and the unbelievable dream he had been having made him wish he could cloak his world in eternal night.

"No!" he roared, leaping up from his bed and flinging the blankets away, splitting the pillows and flinging feathers every which way before throwing himself back down upon the ruined mattress and pounding at it with his fists. "No! This can't be! Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, God, return me to sleep! Jazz, and Prince Crescendo… Vivace needs me, I beg of you, this cannot be real!"

But the more Frederic pleaded the more awake he became, and no matter how much he wished otherwise he could not will his dreams into reality.

On an order from Falsetto, several of the members of Andantino's elite unit set off after Rondo, but the assassin had clearly thought it best not to linger; Arabesque had managed to fire off a single shot from her longbow, but the arrow had failed to find its mark. After that, Rondo had fled the premises and made off into the night, bound, no doubt, for Forte Castle. Claves, Mazurka, Bolero, and Gigue made with all haste for the balcony where Prince Crescendo was at the mercy of their beloved leader, wondering even as they ran how they could bring themselves to square off against him.

Mazurka was the first among them to burst onto the balcony, his own sword raised in defense of the Prince of Baroque; down arced Jazz's greatsword, on target to slice Crescendo in two, but it was foiled just in time by an excellent parry that Mazurka turned into a thrust.

Though Jazz was under the influence of the mineral powder and no longer thinking for himself, the effects of the substance had not dulled his fighting prowess even the slightest. The thrust was slow and clumsy and Jazz batted it aside easily, letting his sword's weight grant momentum to the swing and releasing his dominant hand to punch Mazurka square in the face. Though Mazurka was a larger warrior than Jazz and perhaps even the stronger of the two the strike was enough to knock him flat; he collapsed to the marble in a daze, his eyes wide yet unseeing.

Bolero and Gigue had no choice but to leap backward and out of harm's way when Jazz swept his sword in a horizontal strike, and with no physical weapons of their own and only magic to use they didn't dare to cast any spells on their beloved leader; Claves had drawn her noble's rapier halfway out of its sheath before a flicker of indecision crossed her face, and she shoved the weapon back into its scabbard.

"Jazz!" she cried, throwing her arms out wide. "Stop this! What has come over you? Don't you know us? Don't you have any idea who we are?"

Miraculously the sound of Claves' voice seemed to have some effect on Jazz; for a moment his eyes seemed almost normal, and he lowered his sword a few inches as he regarded her. Claves remained still as a statue before him, keeping her arms spread so as not to appear threatening, tears shimmering in her eyes as she stood helplessly waiting –

The mineral powder's effects seemed to tighten their grip on Jazz once more and quashed any thought he may have had of resisting; Jazz growled low in the back of his throat and slashed out with the greatsword, leaving Claves with no choice but to dive out of the way or be slain. This left Jazz's way to Prince Crescendo clear – there were no more obstacles left to bar his path.

Prince Crescendo cast his rapier to the ground at his feet, his face grim yet determined. "I will not fight you, my friend. I see that some fell power has gripped you and I will not make you suffer for that. If my choices are to put you down, or to risk my life… then my life is forfeit."

The members of Andantino cried out to Prince Crescendo in warning, pleading for him to move out of the way, but Crescendo was no more prepared to evade any more than he was to take Jazz's life from him. Jazz stabbed the sword forward with enough strength to slice through several men at once –

Vivace burst onto balcony at the last moment and leapt between Crescendo and Jazz, and the sword slashed through her torso, between her ribs, and punctured her left lung.

Everything around them grew still as the world ground to a sudden, sickening halt; the only sound was the blood dripping from Vivace's torn chest and the golden-haired rebel's labored, ragged breathing. Then suddenly Jazz's eyes cleared, all malicious intent flown from them, and he and Vivace collapsed together to the ground.


	9. Dawn

Final Chapter: Dawn

"_When darkness is no less than everything you've built become undone_

_There's no fight and no flight, disaster leaves your passion overrun_

_It's time to let go, time to carry on with the show_

_Don't mourn what is gone, greet the dawn, and I will be standing by your side_

_Together we'll face the turning tide…"_

Bolero and Gigue only managed one step forward before Jazz lifted his head and threw one arm out in their direction. "No! Stay back!" Then to Mazurka, who seemed a little more conscious than before, he snapped, "Get Prince Crescendo away from me, in case I lose control again!"

Mazurka nodded once grimly and beckoned to the wide-eyed prince; Crescendo allowed Mazurka and the others to usher him off the balcony and Jazz was at Vivace's side at once, sliding the sword as gently as he was able from her torso and flinging the great blade aside. His hands hovered over her midsection as though he would staunch the flow of the blood himself, but the damage was so extensive that he wasn't certain where to begin.

Her arms were grasping feebly for him and at last he gave up, dragging her into his lap and smoothing the golden strands of hair away from her face. Jazz did his best not to focus on the blood pooling all around them, but in mere seconds it seemed he was covered in it and the sheer amount of crimson was enough to make him weep.

"You…alright…?" Vivace managed to gasp, in a voice so feeble that for a moment Jazz wondered if he had imagined her speaking.

"You fool!" he screamed at her, and though he couldn't feel them he knew that hot tears were spilling from his golden eyes; they fell upon her cheeks, mixing with the blood there. "What have you done? Now because of your carelessness, and my weakness of will, you will surely…"

Jazz trailed off and swallowed back a sob of deepest despair, for surely if he said the words they would become true, and that he simply could not bear.

"Saved you…" she wheezed, and Jazz had to lean his head closer to her lips to catch the words. "…From yourself…"

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, hugging her to his chest in desperation. "I'm so sorry."

He eased her back so that their eyes could meet, and suddenly her gaze was as lifeless as a tomb.

"Frederic…" she whispered, her blind eyes searching, and the moment the pale green orbs settled upon some point just past Jazz's shoulder she smiled blissfully and finally closed her eyes.

Through tear-filled eyes Jazz glanced over his own shoulder, but Frederic Chopin was not there.

* * *

><p>Alone in his apartment Frederic Chopin sat at the piano, staring down at the ivory keys and his fingers upon them poised to play. Though he longed to seek solace in the melodies that he would play he never could bring himself to create any music that day, and he sat in silence at the piano until the day reached its end and night descended upon the Austrian city of Vienna.<p>

He lay awake for many hours in his bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, feeling as though a part of him had died.

Sleep would come eventually, he knew. It always did, whether a person actively sought it or not. So he resolved himself to lay and wait for it, unmoving but more willing to succumb to slumber than ever before.

He had to go back.

He had made her a promise.


End file.
